There, there again! that demon's there,
Crouching to make a fresh attack;
See how his flaming eyeballs glare!

Thou fiend of fiends, what's brought thee back? Back in thy car? for whom? for where?

He smiles, he beckons me to come;

What are those words thou'st written there?
"In hell they never want for rum!"
Not want for rum? Read that again!
I feel the spell! haste, drive me down
Where rum is free, where revellers reign,
And I can wear the drunkard's crown.

Accept thy proffer, fiend? I will,

And to thy drunken banquet come;
Fill the great cauldron from thy still
With boiling, burning, fiery rum;
There will I quench this horrid thirst,
With boon companions drink and dwell,
Nor plead for rum, as here I must-
There's liberty to drink in hell!

Thus raved that maniac rum had made;
Then starting from his haunted bed,
On, on! ye demons, on! he said,

Then silent sunk his soul had fled!

-

T

THE KNIGHT'S TOAST.

HE feast is o'er! Now brimming wine
In lordly cup is seen to shine

Before each eager guest;

And silence fills the crowded hall,
As deep as when the herald's call

Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,

And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast!
To all our ladies fair!

Here, before all, I pledge the name
Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame
The Ladye Gundamere!"

Then to his feet each gallant sprung,
And joyous was the shout that rung,
As Stanley gave the word;

And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry,
Till Stanley's voice was heard.

"Enough, enough," he smiling said,
And lowly bent his haughty head;
"That all may have their due,
Now each, in turn, must play his part,
And pledge the lady of his heart,
Like gallant knight and true!"

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up,
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;
On him are fixed those countless eyes:
A gallant knight is he;
Envied by some, admired by all,
Far famed in lady's bower, and hall—
The flower of chivalry.

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high:
"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead.

"To one whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions long have past-
So holy 't is and true;

To one whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you."

Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,
With fury-flashing eye;

And Stanley said: "We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood,
Thus lightly, to another;

Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence due,
And gently said, "My Mother!"

EXTRACT FROM A SERMON ON THE DEATH OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

R

EPUBLICAN institutions have been vindicated in this experience as they never were before; and the whole history of the last four years, rounded up by this cruel stroke, seems, in the providence of God, to have been clothed, now, with an illustration, with a sympathy, with an aptness, and with a significance, such as we never could have expected nor imagined. God, I think, has said, by the voice of this event, to all nations of the earth, "Republican liberty, based upon true Christianity, is firm as the foundation of the globe."

Even he who now sleeps has, by this event, been clothed with new influence. Dead, he speaks to men who now willingly hear what before they refused to listen to. Now his simple and weighty words will be gathered like those of Washington, and your children, and your children's children, shall be taught to ponder the simplicity and deep wisdom of utterances, which, in

their time, passed, in party heat, as idle words. Men will receive a new impulse of patriotism for his sake, and will guard with zeal the whole country which he loved so well. I swear you, on the altar of his memory, to be more faithful to the country for which he has perished. They will, as they follow his hearse, swear a new hatred to that slavery against which he warred, and which, in vanquishing him, has made him a martyr and a conqueror. I swear you, by the memory of this martyr, to hate slavery with an unappeasable hatred. They will admire and imitate the firmness of this man, his inflexible conscience for the right; and yet his gentleness, as tender as a woman's, his moderation of spirit, which not all the heat of party could inflame, nor all the jars and disturbances of this country shake out of its place. I swear you to an emulation of his justice, his moderation, and his mercy.

You I can comfort; but how can I speak to that twilight million to whom his name was as the name of an angel of God? There will be wailing in places which no minister shall be able to reach. When, in hovel and in cot, in wood and in wilderness, in the field throughout the South, the dusky children, who looked upon him as that Moses whom God sent before them to lead them out of the land of bondage, learn that he has fallen, who shall comfort them? O thou Shepherd of Israel, that didst comfort thy people of old, to thy care we commit the helpless, the longwronged, and grieved!

And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than when alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming. Cities and States are his pall-bearers, and the cannon beats the hours with solemn progression. Dead, dead, DEAD, he yet speaketh! Is Washington dead? Is Hampden dead? Is David dead? Is any man that ever was fit to live dead? Disenthralled of flesh, and risen in the unobstructed sphere where passion never comes, he begins his illimitable work. His life now is grafted upon the infinite, and will be fruitful as no earthly life can be. Pass on, thou that hast overcome!

Your sorrows, O people, are his peace! Your bells, and bands, and muffled drums sound triumph in his ear. Wail and weep here; God makes its echo joy and triumph there. Four years ago, O Illinois! we took from your midst an untried man, and from among the people. We return him to you

Pass on!

a mighty conqueror. Not thine any more, but the nation's; not ours, but the world's. Give him place, O ye prairies!

In the midst of this great continent his dust shall rest, a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over the

mighty places of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold a martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for liberty!

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray,

O'ER a low the sun, dying warrior test

The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er That I shall mount my noble steed, and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I-ha! ha! must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim

spear:

Think ye he's entered at my gate - has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging

hot:

I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!—defy, and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin;
Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in:
Up with my banner on the wall- the banquet-board prepare
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"

An hundred hands were busy then; the banquet forth was spread,
And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread;
While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall,
Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old
Gothic hall.