But when he recovered his teeth and sense He was only speaking of hellebore, A drug she could buy at what's-his-name's store, I I cannot tell all that the deacon said, But he started for home with an aching head, For a guilty feeling was in his breast Which he couldn't get out, though he tried his best. In spite of the deacon's apologies. She left the garden, went up the stair, And rocked and rocked till the soothing balm And she wondered, “Whatever will happen next!" If he'd just put his syllables nearer together, There had been the least trouble or scandal-but then, In viewing such things with our moral eyes, There's a tendency, always, to moralize; And this is the moral I offer for all: When you think you are standing take heed lest you fall! THE LAST BANQUET.-EDWARD RENAUD. The incident narrated in this poem is based on fact, a tragedy of the kind being reported to have occurred, during the French Revolution in 1793, in the north of France. Gitaut, the Norman marquis, sat in his banquet hall, до Yonder, over the poplars, lapped in the mellow haze, His was a cruel temper; under his baneful sway, But when the surging thousands, bleeding at every pore, High on a painted panel, set in a gilded shrine, Shone her benignant features, lit with a smile divine; Under the high, straight forehead, eyes of the brightest blue, Framed in her hair's bright masses, rivaled the sapphire's hue. "Why do you come, Breconi?”—“" Marquis, you did not call; But Mignonne is waiting yonder, down by the castle wall." "Bid her begone!"-" But master-poor child, she loves you so! And, broken with bitter weeping, she told me a tale of woe. "She says there is wild work yonder, there in the hated town, Where the crowd of frenzied people are shooting the nobles down; And to-night, ere the moon has risen, they come, with burning brand, With the flame of the blazing castle to light the lurid land. "But first you must spread the banquet-host for the crew abhorred- Ere out from the topmost turret they fling my murdered lord. Flee for thy life, Lord Marquis, flee from a frightful doom, When the night has hid the postern safe in its friendly gloom!" "Tush! are you mad, Breconi? spread them the banquet here, With flowers and fruits and viands, silver and crystal clear; Let not a touch be wanting-hasten those hands of thine! Haste to the task, Breconi-and I will draw the wine!" Slowly the sun went westward, till all the city's spires Flamed in the flood of splendor-a hundred flickering fires. Over the peaceful landscape, clasped by the girdling stream, Quivered, in mournful glory, the last expiring beam. Then up from the rippling river sounded the tramp of feet, That rose o'er the solemn stillness laden with perfume sweet; While high o'er the sleeping city, and over the garden gloom, Towered the grim, black castle, still as the silent tomb. Leaning over the casement, heark'ning the busy hum, And beamed with a sigh of welcome-humming a low refrain. There, under the lighted tapers set in the banquet-hall, "Welcome, fair guests-be seated!" he cried to the motley crowd, That drew to the loaded table with curses long and loud; Turned to the paneled picture, calm in his icy hate, He stood, in his pride of lineage, cold as a marble Fate; Smiling in hidden meaning--in his rich garments dressedAs cold and hard and polished as the brilliants on his breast. Pouring a brimming beaker, he cried, " Drink, friends, I pray! Drink to the toast I give you! Pledge me my proudest day! Here, under the hall of banquet-drink, drink to the festal news! Stand twenty casks of powder, set with a lighted fuse!" Frozen with sudden horror, they saw, like a fleecy mist, Up through its yawning crater the mighty earthquake broke, Then down o'er the lurid landscape, lit by those fires of hellButtress and roof and rafter-the smoking ruin fell! Over the Norman landscape the summer sun looks down, But high o'er the trembling poplars, blackened and burned and riven, Those blasted battlements and towers frown in the face of heaven; And still in the sultry August I seem at times to feel SONG OF THE TYPE. Click, click, click, List to the song of the type; Now breathing as soft and as light As a sigh from the heart's first emotion; As billows that roll on the ocean. Far-reaching, eternal, its tones From the clime where the ice-mountains shine Are borne over earth's ample zones To the land of the myrtle and vine. Click, click, click, List to the song of the type;- Click, click, click, List to the song of the type;— Far eastward, a message it bears To the heathen that wander in gloom, It utters idolatry's doom. "Tis echoed in anthems divine From mountain, and valley, and plain; Click, click, click, List to the song of the type;~ Repining in dungeon and chains, List to the song of the type;-— Which the future may wrest from their gripe, List to the song of the type ; The arch of the press is the bow Shall reach and encircle each shore, The deluge of darkness is o'er. BEN HAZZARD'S GUESTS.-ANNA P. MARSHALL. Ben Hazzard's hut was smoky and cold, Ben Hazzard, half blind, was black and old, Sometimes he sighed for a larger store |