"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 sudden 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 shali 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 this 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.".

Revelry in Endía.

ANONYMOUS.

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.

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;

A cup to the dead already-
Hurrah for the next that dies!

Who dreads to the dust returning?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul shall sing no more?
Ho! stand to your glasses steady;
This world is a world of lies;
A cup to the dead already-

Hurrah for the next that dies!

Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betrayed by the land we find,
Where the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest remain behind-
Stand, stand to your glasses steady!
"T is all we have left to prize;

A cup to the dead already

And hurrah for the next that dies!

BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING.

The Rising of the Moon.

"O, THEN tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall,
Tell me why you hurry so."
‘Hush, ma bouchal, hush and listen,”—
And his cheeks were all aglow.
"I bear ordhers from the captain,

Get you ready quick and soon,
For the pikes must be together
At the risin' of the moon."

"O, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Where the gatherin' is to be."

"In the ould spot by the river,

Right well known to you and me.