So I played and I played, till, so weary I grew,
I sat down to rest in the shade of a yew,

While the birds sang so sweetly high up on its top:
I held my breath, mother, for fear they would stop!
Thus a long while I sat, looking up to the sky,
And watching the clouds that went hurrying by,
When I heard a voice calling just over my head,
That sounded as if 'Come, O brother!' it said;
And there, right over the top of the tree,

O mother, an angel was beck'ning to me!

"And, 'Brother!' once more, 'come, O brother!' he cried, And flew on light pinions close down by my side! And mother, oh! never was being so bright

As the one which then beamed on my wondering sight!
His face was as fair as the delicate shell,

His hair down his shoulders in fair ringlets fell,
The eyes resting on me, so melting with love,
Were as soft and as mild as the eyes of a dove!
And somehow, dear mother, I felt not afraid,
As his hand on my brow he caressingly laid,
And whispered so softly and gently to me,
'Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee!'

"And then on my forehead he tenderly pressed

Such kisses - O mother, they thrilled through my breast,
As swiftly as lightning leaps down from on high,
When the chariot of God rolls along the black sky!

While his breath, floating round me, was soft as the breeze
That played in my tresses, and rustled the trees.

At last on my head a deep blessing he poured,

Then plumed his bright pinions and upward he soared!
And up, up he went, through the blue sky, so far,
He seemed to float there like a glittering star:

Yet still my eyes followed his radiant flight,
Till, lost in the azure, he passed from my sight!
Then, oh! how I feared, as I caught the last gleam
Of his vanishing form, it was only a dream!
When soft voices whispered once more from the tree,
Come, brother, the angels are waiting for thee!'"

Oh, pale grew that mother, and heavy her heart,

For she knew her fair boy from this world must depart!
That his bright locks must fade in the dust of the tomb
Ere the autumn winds withered the summer's rich bloom!
Oh, how his young footsteps she watched, day by day,
As his delicate form wasted slowly away,

Till the soft light of heaven seemed shed o'er his face,
And he crept up to die in her loving embrace!
"Oh, clasp me, dear mother, close, close to your breast,
On that gentle pillow again let me rest!

Let me once more gaze up to that dear, loving eye,
And then, oh, methinks, I can willingly die!
Now kiss me, dear mother! oh, quickly! for see,
The bright, blessed angels are waiting for me!"

Oh, wild was the anguish that swept through her breast,
As the long, frantic kiss on his pale lips she pressed!
And felt the vain search of his soft, pleading eye,
As it strove to meet hers ere the fair boy could die.
"I see you not, mother, for darkness and night
Are hiding your dear, loving face from my sight-
But I hear your low sobbings-dear mother, good-by!
The angels are ready to bear me on high!

I will wait for you there-but, oh, tarry not long,
Lest grief at your absence should sadden my song!"
He ceased, and his hands meekly clasped on his breast,
While his sweet face sank down on its pillow of rest;
Then, closing his eyes, now all rayless and dim,
Went up with the angels that waited for him!

F

LINT.

IBRE by fibre, shred by shred,

It falls from her delicate hand

In feathery films, as soft and slow
As fall the flakes of a vanishing snow

In the lap of a summer land.

There are jewels of price in her roseate ears,

And gold round her white wrist coils;
There are costly trifles on every hand,
And gems of art from many a land,
In the chamber where she toils.

A rare bird sings in a gilded cage
At the open casement near;

A sun ray glints through a swaying bough,
And lights with a diamond radiance now
The dew of a falling tear!

A sob floats out to the summer air
With the song-bird's latest trill;
The gossamer folds of the drapery
Are waved by the swell of a long, low sigh,
And the delicate hands are still.

"Ah! beauty of earth is nought, is nought!
And a gilded youth is vain!

I have seen a sister's scarred face shine
With a youth and beauty all divine
By the soldier's couch of pain!

"I have read of another,* whose passing shade
On their pillows the mangled kissed

In the far Crimea!" There are no more tears,
But she plucks the gems from her delicate ears,
And the gold from her slender wrist.

The bird still sings in his gilded cage;
But the angel in her heart

Hath stung her soul with a noble pain;
And beauty is nought, and youth is vain,
While the patriot's wounds still smart.

Fibre by fibre, shred by shred,

Still fall from her delicate hand

The feathery films, as soft and slow

*Florence Nightingale, an English lady, who cared for her country's soldiers in the Crimean War.

As fall the flakes of a vanishing snow
In the lap of a summer land.

There are crimson stains on breasts and brows,
And fillets in ghastly coils;

The walls are lofty and white and bare,
And moaning echoes roll ever there

Through the chamber where she toils.

No glitter of gold on her slender wrist,
Nor gem in her roseate ears;

But a youth and a beauty all divine
In the face of the Christian maiden shine,
And her gems are the soldier's tears.

AN APPEAL FOR OUR COUNTRY.

The following is an extract from a discourse in commemoration of the first settlement of Salem, Massachusetts, delivered by Judge Story, September 18, 1828.

I

CALL upon you, fathers, by the shades of your ancestors, by the dear ashes which repose in this precious soil, by all you are and all you hope to be- resist every project of disunion, resist every encroachment upon your liberties resist every attempt to fetter your consciences, or smother your public schools, or extinguish your system of public instruction.

I call upon you, mothers, by that which never fails in woman the love of your offspring: teach them, as they climb your knees, or lean upon your bosoms, the blessings of liberty. Swear them at the altar, as with their baptismal vows, to be true to their country, and never to forget or forsake her.

I call upon you, young men, to remember whose sons you are, whose inheritance you possess. Life can never be too short, which brings nothing but disgrace and oppression. Death never comes too soon, if necessary in defence of the liberties of your country.

I call upon you, old men, for your counsels, and your prayers, and your benedictions. May not your gray hairs go down in sorrow to the grave with the recollection that you have lived in

vain! May not your last sun sink in the west upon a nation of slaves!

The time of our departure is at hand, to make way for our children upon the theatre of life. May God speed them and theirs! May he who, at the distance of another century, shall stand here, to celebrate this day, still look round upon a free, May he have reason to exult as we

happy, and virtuous people!

do! May he, with all the enthusiasm of truth, as well as of poetry, exclaim that here is still his country.

Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;
Patient of toil: serene amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith; invincible in arms."

WASHINGTON AND LINCOLN.

The following is an extract from a eulogy on President Lincoln pronounced by Charles Sumner before the citizens of Boston on Thursday, June 1, 1865.

N the universe of God there are no accidents. From the fall

IN

of a sparrow to the fall of an empire, or the sweep of a planet, all is according to Divine providence, whose laws are everlasting. It was no accident which gave to his country the patriot whom we now honor. It was no accident which snatched this patriot, so suddenly and so cruelly, from his sublime duties. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord. Perhaps never in history has this providence been more conspicuous than in that recent procession of events where the final triumph was wrapped in the gloom of tragedy. It will be our duty to catch the moral of this stupendous drama.

For the second time in our annals, the country has been summoned by the President to unite, on an appointed day, in commemorating the life and character of the dead. The first was on the death of George Washington, when, as now, a day was set apart for simultaneous eulogy throughout the land; and cities, towns, and villages all vied in tribute. More than half a century has passed since this early observance in memory of the Father of his Country, and now it is repeated in memory of Abraham Lincoln.

Thus are Washington and Lincoln associated in the grandeur