Oh, I seem to stand

Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been,
Wrapped in the radiance of Thy sinless hand
Which eye hath never seen.

Visions come and go,—

Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,—

When Heaven is ripening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime,

My being fills with rapture,-waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL.

Curfew Must not Ring To-night.

ENGLAND S Sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad

day;

And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden

fair,

He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair;

He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison

old,

With its walls so dark and gloomy,-walls so dark, and damp, and cold,—

"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton-every word pierced her young heart

Like a thousand gleaming arrows-like a deadly poisoned

dart;

'Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour; I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right, Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings tonight!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

And within her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn

Vow;

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or

sigh,

"At the ringing of the Curfew-Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew

large and bright

One low murmur, scarcely spoken-" Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft be

fore;

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow,

Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro:

Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray

of light,

Upward still, her pale lips saying: "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell,

And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell;

See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 't is the hour of Curfew now—

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sud

den light,

As she springs and grasps it firmly-" Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck be

low;

There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro;

And the half-deaf Saxon ringing (years he had not heard

the bell,)

And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell;

Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white,

Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating-" Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before

Human foot had not been planted; and what she thie night had done,

Should be told in long years after-as the rays of setting

sun

Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads

of white,

Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her brow,

Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty now;

At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised

and torn;

And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity-lit his eyes with misty light;

"Go, your lover lives! cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not ring to-night."

ROSA HARTWICK THORPE.

Rebelry in India.

We meet 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare;
As they echo the peals of laughter
It seems that the dead are there;
But stand to your glasses steady,

We drink to our comrades' eyes;
Quaff a cup to the dead already—

And hurrah for the next that dies!

Not here are the goblets flowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet;
'T is cold, as our hearts are growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.

But stand to your glasses steady,
And soon shall our pulses rise;
A cup to the dead already—

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink;
We'll fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
So stand to your glasses steady,
'T is in this that our respite lies;
One cup to the dead already—
Hurrah for the next that dies!

Time was when we frowned at others,
We thought we were wiser then;
Ha ha! let those think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No! stand to your glasses steady,

The thoughtless are here the wise;

A cup to the dead already

Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's many a hand that's shaking,
There's many a cheek that 's sunk;
But soon, though our hearts are breaking,
They'll burn with the wine we 've drunk.
So stand to your glasses steady,

'T is here the revival lies;

A cup to the dead already—

Hurrah for the next that dies!

There's a mist on the glass congealing,
"T is the hurricane's fiery breath;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of death.
Ho! stand to your glasses steady;
For a moment the vapor flies;