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,
Bingen on the Rhine.

- fair

EDWARD LORD LYTTON.

THE SABBATH.

FRESH glides the brook and blows the gale,
Yet yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

Six days' stern labor shuts the poor From Nature's careless banquet-hall; The seventh an angel opes the door, And, smiling, welcomes all!

A Father's tender mercy gave

This holy respite to the breast, To breathe the gale, to watch the wave, And know the wheel may rest!

Six days of toil, poor child of Cain,

Thy strength thy master's slave must be;

The seventh the limbs escape the chain,
A God hath made thee free!
The fields that yester-morning knew

Thy footsteps as their serf, survey;
On thee, as them, descends the dew,
The baptism of the day.

Fresh glides the brook and blows the gale,
But yonder halts the quiet mill;
The whirring wheel, the rushing sail,
How motionless and still!

So rest, O weary heart!- but, lo, The church-spire, glistening up to heaven,

To warn thee where thy thoughts should go
The day thy God hath given!

Lone through the landscape's solemn rest,
The spire its moral points on high.
O soul, at peace within the breast,

Rise, mingling with the sky!
They tell thee, in their dreaming school,

When rich and poor, with juster rule, Of power from old dominion hurled,

Shall share the altered world.

Alas! since time itself began,

That fable hath but fooled the hour; Each age that ripens power in man But subjects man to power. Yet every day in seven, at least,

One bright republic shall be known;

bloweth;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

thy pillow;

Work, thou shalt ride over Care's com

ing billow;

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weep

ing willow!

Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

found;

In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices

sound,

And to our eyes the vision is denied.

Open our eyes, that we that world may

see!

Open our ears, that we thy voice may hear,

And in the spirit-land may ever be,
And feel thy presence with us, always

near.

TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE.

BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou,

And life's dark throng of cares and fears Were swift-winged shadows o'er my sunny brow!

Thou blushest from the painter's page, Robed in the mimic tints of art; But Nature's hand in youth's green age With fairer hues first traced thee on my heart.

The morning's blush, she made it thine; The morn's sweet breath, she gave it thee;

And in thy look, my Columbine! Each fond-remembered spot she bade me

see.

I see the hill's far-gazing head, Where gay thou noddest in the gale; I hear light-bounding footsteps tread The grassy path that winds along the vale.

I hear the voice of woodland song Break from each bush and wellknown tree,

And, on light pinions borne along, Comes back the laugh from childhood's heart of glee.

O'er the dark rock the dashing brook,

With look of anger, leaps again,
And, hastening to each flowery nook,
Its distant voice is heard far down the
glen.

Fair child of art! thy charms decay,
Touched by the withered hand of
Time;

And hushed the music of that day, When my voice mingled with the streamlet's chime:

JOHN KEBLE.

[1796-1821.]

MORNING.

O, TIMELY happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,
Which evermore makes all things new!

New every morning is the love Our wakening and uprising prove,