Heard, at its inner shrine,

Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill?
Then should I grieve? O murmuring heart, be still!
She seems to have a sense

Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play;
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way,
Whose voiceless eloquence

Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear
That even her father would not care for her.

Thank God it is not so!

And when his sons are playing merrily,
She comes and leans her head upon his knee.
Oh, at such times, I know,

By his full eye, and tones subdued and mild,
How his heart yearns over his silent child.
Not of all gifts bereft,

Even now. How could I say she did not speak?
What real language lights her eye and cheek

And renders thanks to Him who left

Into her soul yet open avenues

For joy to enter, and for love to use!

And God in love doth give

To her defect a beauty of its own;

And we a deeper tenderness have known
Through that for which we grieve.
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear,
Yea, and my voice shall fill it-but not here.
When that new sense is given
What rapture will its first experience be-
That never woke to meaner melody

Than the rich songs of heaven,-
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round,
While angels teach the ecstasies of sound!

EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND.-LAMARTINE.

The examination and trial of Madame Roland were but a repetition of those charges against the Gironde, with which every harangue of the Jacobin party was filled. She was reproached with being the wife of Roland, and the friend of his accomplices. With a proud look of triumph, Madame Roland admitted her guilt in both instances; spoke with tenderness of her husband, with respect of her friends, and with

dignified modesty of herself; but, borne down by the clamors of the court whenever she gave vent to her indignation against her persecutors, she ceased speaking amid the threats and invectives of her hearers. The people were at that period permitted to take a fearful and leading part in the dialogue between the judges and accused; they even permitted persons on trial to address the court, or compelled their silence; the very verdict rested with them.

Madame Roland heard herself sentenced to death with the air of one who saw in her condemnation merely her title to immortality. She rose, and slightly bowing to her judges, said, with a bitter and ironical smile, "I thank you for considering me worthy to share the fate of the good and great men you have murdered!" She flew down the steps of the Conciergerie with the rapid swiftness of a child about to obtain some long-desired object: the end and aim of her desires was death. As she passed along the corridor, where all the prisoners had assembled to greet her return, she looked at them smilingly, and, drawing her right hand across her throat, made a sign expressive of cutting off a head. This was her only farewell; it was tragic as her destiny, joyous as her deliverance; and well was it understood by those who saw it. Many who were incapable of weeping for their own fate shed tears of unfeigned sorrow for hers.

On that day (November 10, 1793,) a greater number than usual of carts laden with victims rolled onward toward the scaffold. Madame Roland was placed in the last, beside an infirm old man, named Lamarche. She wore a white robe, as a symbol of her innocence, of which she was anxious to convince the people; her magnificent hair, black and glossy as a raven's wing, fell in thick masses almost to her knees: her complexion, purified by her long captivity, and now glowing under the influence of a sharp, frosty November day, bloomed with all the freshness of early youth. Her eyes were full of expression; her whole countenance seemed radiant with glory, while a movement between pity and contempt agitated her lips. A crowd followed them, uttering the coarsest threats and most revolting expressions. "To the guillotine! to the guillotine!" exclaimed the female part of the rabble.

"I am going to the guillotine," replied Madame Roland; "a few moments and I shall be there; but those who send me thither will follow me ere long. I go innocent, but they will come stained with blood, and you who applaud our execution will then applaud theirs with equal zeal." Sometimes she would turn away her head that she might not appear to hear the insults with which she was assailed, and would lean with almost filial tenderness over the agéd partner of her execution. The poor old man wept bitterly, and she kindly and cheeringly encouraged him to bear up with firmness, and to suffer with resignation. She even tried to enliven the dreary journey they were performing together by little attempts at cheerfulness, and at length succeeded in winning a smile from her fellow-sufferer.

A colossal statue of Liberty, composed of clay, like the liberty of the time, then stood in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, on the spot now occupied by the Obelisk ; the scaffold was erected beside this statue. Upon arriving there, Madame Roland descended from the cart in which she had been conveyed. Just as the executioner had seized her arm to enable her to be the first to mount to the guillotine, she displayed an instance of that noble and tender consideration for others, which only a woman's heart could conceive, or put into practice at such a moment. 'Stay!" said she, momentarily resisting the man's grasp. "I have only one favor to ask, and that is not for myself; I beseech you grant it me." Then, turning to the old man, she said, “Do you precede me to the scaffold; to see my blood flow would be making you suffer the bitterness of death twice over. I must spare you the pain of witnessing my punishment. The executioner allowed this arrangement to be made.

66

With what sensibility and firmness must the mind have been imbued which could, at such a time, forget its own sufferings, to think only of saving one pang to an unknown old man! and how clearly does this one little trait attest the heroic calmness with which this celebrated woman met her death! After the execution of Lamarche, which she witnessed without changing color, Madame Roland stepped lightly up to the scaffold, and, bowing before the statue of Liberty, as though to do homage to a power for whom she

was about to die, exclaimed, "O Liberty! Liberty! how many crimes are committed in thy name!" She then resigned herself to the hands of the executioner, and in a few seconds her head fell into the basket placed to receive it.

WIDDER GREEN'S LAST WORDS.

"I'm goin' to die!" says the Widder Green.
"I'm goin' to quit this airthly scene:

It ain't no place for me to stay

In such a world as 'tis to-day.

Such works and ways is too much for me;
Nobody can't let nobody be.

The girls is flounced from top to toe,
An' that's the hull o' what they know.
The men is mad on bonds an' stocks,-
Swearin' an' shootin', an' pickin' locks.
I'm real afraid I'll be hanged myself
Ef I ain't laid on my final shelf.
There ain't a cretur but knows to-day
I never was lunatic in any way;
But since crazy folks all go free,
I'm dreadful afraid they'll hang up me.
There's another matter that's pesky hard,-
I can't go into a neighbor's yard

To say How be you?' or borry a pin
But what the paper'll have it in.

'We're pleased to say the Widder Green
Took dinner a Tuesday with Mrs. Keene,'
Or 'Our worthy friend Miss Green has gone
Down to Barkhamsted to see her son.'
Great Jerusalem ! can't I stir

Without a-raisin' some feller's fur?
There ain't no privacy-so to say-

No more than if this was the Judgment Day.
And as for meetin',-I want to swear
Whenever I put my head in there,-
Why, even 'Old Hundred's' spiled and done
Like everything else under the sun.
It used to be so solemn and slow,―
Praise to the Lord from men below:
Now it goes like a gallopin' steer,
High diddle diddle, there and here!
No respect to the Lord above,

No more'n ef he was hand and glove

With all the creturs he ever made,
And all the jigs that ever was played.
Preachin', too-but here I'm dumb;
But I tell you what! I'd like it some
Ef good old Parson Nathan Strong,
Out o' his grave would come along,
An' give us a stirrin' taste o' fire-
Judgment an' justice is my desire.
"Taint all love an' sickish sweet

That makes this world or t'other complete.
But law! I'm old. I'd better be dead
When the world's a-turnin' over my head,
Sperit's talkin' like tarnal fools,

Bibles kicked out o' deestrict schools,
Crazy creturs a-murderin' round,-

Honest folks better be under ground.

So fare-ye-well! this airthly scene

Won't no more be pestered by Widder Green."

THE LITTLE HERO.

Now, lads, a short yarn I'll just spin you,
As happened on our very last run,-
'Bout a boy as a man's soul had in him,
Or else I'm a son of a gun.

From Liverpool port out three days, lads;
The good ship floating over the deep;
The skies bright with sunshine above us;
The waters beneath us asleep.

Not a bad-tempered lubber among us;
A jollier crew never sailed,
'Cept the first mate, a bit of a savage,
But good seaman as ever was hailed.
Regulation, good order, his motto;
Strong as iron, an' steady as quick;
With a couple of bushy black eyebrows,
And eyes fierce as those of Old Nick.
One day he comes up from below,
A-graspin' a lad by the arm,—

A poor little ragged young urchin

As had ought to bin home to his marm.
An' the mate asks the boy, pretty roughly,
How he dared for to be stowed away,
A-cheatin' the owners and captain,
Sailin', eatin', and all without pay.