"OH is it a phantom? a dream of the night?
A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight?
The wind, wailing ever, with motion uncertain
Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd curtain,
To and fro, up and down.

But it is not the wind

That is lifting it now: and it is not the mind
That hath moulded that vision.

A pale woman enters,
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which concentres
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer,
There, all in a slumbrous and shadowy glimmer,
The sufferer sees that still form floating on,
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone.
She is flitting before him.
By his bedside, all silent.
On the brow of the boy.
Softly, softly, the sore wounds: the hot blood-stain'd
dressing

She pauses. She stands She lays her white hands A light finger is pressing

Slips from them. A comforting quietude steals Thro' the rack'd weary frame: and, throughout it, he feels

The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighbourhood. Something smoothes the toss'd pillow. Beneath a grey hood

Of rough serge, two intense tender eyes are bent o'er him,

And thrill thro' and thro' him. The sweet form before

him,

It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigil keeping!
A soft voice says-'Sleep!'

And he sleeps: he is sleeping.

"He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there :

Still that pale woman moves not. A minist'ring care Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheering The aspect of all things around him.

Revering Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd In silence the sense of salvation. And rest

Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he faintly Sigh'd-'Say what thou art, blessed dream of a saintly And minist'ring spirit!'

A whisper serene

Slid softer than silence-'The Sour Seraphine,

A

poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire Aught further, young soldier. The son of thy sire, 'For the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the grave. 'Thou didst not shun death: shun not life.

brave

'To live than to die. Sleep!'

'Tis more

He sleeps: he is sleeping.

"He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping The skies with chill splendour. And there, never

flitting,

Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting.

As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning Slowly, feebly within him. The night-lamp, yet burning, Made ghastly the glimmering daybreak.

He said,

'If thou be of the living, and not of the dead,

'Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing

Of that balmy voice; if it may be, revealing
Thy mission of mercy! whence art thou?'

'O son

One

'Of Matilda and Alfred, it matters not!
'Who is not of the living nor yet of the dead:
'To thee, and to others, alive yet'-she said-
So long as there liveth the poor gift in me
'Of this ministration: to them, and to thee,
'Dead in all things beside. A French Nun, whose
vocation

'Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation.
'Wherever man suffers, or woman may soothe,
'There her land! there her kindred!'

She bent down to smoothe

The hot pillow, and added—' Yet more than another

'Is thy life dear to me.

For thy father, thy mother,

'I knew them-I know them.'

From her bosom two letters: and-can it be true?
That beloved and familiar writing!

He burst

Into tears- My poor mother,—my father! the worst 'Will have reached them!'

'No, no!' she exclaim'd with a smile, "They know you are living; they know that meanwhile

'I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep not!' But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot

Fever'd brow of the boy weeping wildly is press'd. There, at last, the young heart sobs itself into rest : And he hears, as it were between smiling and weeping, The calm voice say Sleep!'

And he sleeps, he is sleeping. (By permission of Messrs. Chapman and Hall.)

WAKE NOT THE DEAD.

(FROM THE GERMAN OF J. M. FERMENICH.)
JOHN OXENFORD.

Two youngsters were roaming the valley along,
And laugh'd as they caroll'd a joyous song.
The churchyard was near; and a tuneful lay,
The chafers were singing in honour of May;
While dismal enough was the cricket's tone,
As tombs in the full moon's lustre shone.
The first wav'd boldly a flagon bright,

That sparkled wide with the Rhine wine's light;

And cried, "Ye dead, you're a sluggardly crew,
Awake from your beds, bedabbled in dew;

If ever in life you a goblet would drain,
Come, dead men, join me, and drink again.”
Then loud through the night was the other's call,
"Dear mischievous maidens, I summon you all.
'Tis ill in the grave, to lie pallid and cold,
Come frolick with me, as in times of old."

The churchyard groans, with a ponderous sound,
The graves are quaking and bursting around.

There's creaking and cracking, and rumbling and rustling,

There's breaking and scraping, and clattering and bustling;

The skeletons tall from their prison rise,

And strange is the sound of the night-wind's sighs:
Each man looks brave with a fleshless chin,
The maidens dance with the wickedest grin.
The youngsters shudder-high bristles their hair,
The dead are chasing the living pair;

They clatter behind-they grip-they snatch,
The living may run, but the dead can catch.
The men tug hard at the flagon bright,
That sparkles wide with the Rhine wine's light.
They bellow: "We dead, we obey your call,
And out from the grave we have tumbled all;
In life, like you, we a goblet could drain,
And now we join you to drink again."
The skeleton women speak dismally,—
"Dear mischievous maidens once were we;
'Tis ill in the grave to lie pallid and cold,
We'll frolick with you, as in times of old."
Without a fiddle now dance the dead,
The clatter of bones makes music instead;

While sounds from the distance the owlet's cry,
Loud croak the toads in the ferns that lie.

Until the cock has begun to crow,

Then off to their graves the dead folks go.
The youngsters lie in the white moonshine,
No more shall they dance, or tipple their wine.
Though many still rove the valley along,
And laugh as they carol a joyous song;

But when they find that the churchyard is near,
They cross themselves thrice with pious fear;
And take good care to double their расе,
And leave the dead in their resting-place.
(By permission of the Author.)

CHARACTERS:

Captain Bobadil: A Braggadocio.
Master Matthew: A Simpleton.

SCENE-The mean and obscure lodging of BOBADIL.
BOBADIL discovered. Enter to him MASTER MATTHEW.

Mat. Save you, sir; save you, captain.

Bob. Gentle master Matthew! Is it you, sir? Please you to sit down.

Mat. Thank you, good captain, you may see I am somewhat audacious.

Bob. Not so, sir. I was requested to supper last night by a sort of gallants, where you were wish'd for, and drunk to, I assure you.

Mat. Vouchsafe me, by whom, good captain?

Bob. Marry, by young Well-bred and others. Why, hostess, a stool here for this gentleman.

Mat. No haste, sir; 'tis very well.

Bob. Body o' me !—it was so late ere we parted last night, I can scarce open my eyes yet; I was but new risen, as you came: how passes the day abroad, sir ?— you can tell.