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eth." A water-spout had burst up among the moor-lands, and the river in its power was at hand. There it came, tumbling along into that long reach of cliffs, and in a moment filled it with one mass of waves. Huge, agitated clouds of foam rode on the surface of a blood-red torrent. An army must have been swept off by that flood. The soldiers perished in a moment; but high up in the cliffs, above the sweep of destruction, were the covenanters-men, women, and children, uttering prayers to God, unheard by themselves in that raging thunder.

John Wilson.

The Battle.

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Heavy and solemn,

A cloudy column.

Through the green plain they marching come!
Measureless spread, like a table dread,

For the wild grim dice of the iron game.
Looks are bent on the shaking ground, F
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound;
Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt,
Gallops the Major along the front

"Halt !"

And fettered they stand at the stark command,
And the warriors, silent, halt.

Proud in the blush of morning glowing,
What on the hill-top shines in flowing?

"See you the foeman's banners waving?
see the foeman's banners waving!"

"We

"God be with your children and wife!"

Hark to the music-the drum and fife

How they ring through the ranks, which they rouse to the strife!

Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone,

Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone!

Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,

In the life to come that we meet once more!

See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder!

Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their thunder

From host to host with kindling sound,

The shouted signal circles round;

Freer already breathes the breath!
The war is waging, slaughter raging
And heavy through the reeking pall

The iron death-dice fall!

Nearer they close-foes upon foes-
"Ready!"-from square to square it goes.

They kneel as one man from flank to flank,

And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank.

Many a soldier to earth is sent,

Many a gap by ball is rent;

O'er the corpse before springs the hindest man,

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That the line may not fall to the fearless van.
To the right, to the left, and around and around,
Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground.
God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight,
Over the hosts falls a brooding night!
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er,
In the life to come we may meet once more.
The dead men are bathed in the weltering blood
And the living are blent in the slippery flood,
And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go,
Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below.
"What? Francis!"__" Give Charlotte my last farewell,
As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell—
"I'll give-O God! are the guns so near?

Ho! comrades!-yon volley!-look sharp to the rear!
I'll give to thy Charlotte thy last farewell!

Sleep soft! where death thickest descendeth in rain,
The friend thou forsaketh thy side may regain!"
Hitherward, thitherward reels the fight;
Dark and more darkly day glooms into night.
Brethren, God grant, when this life is o'er,
In the life to come that we meet once more!

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go!

The adjutants flying

The horsemen press hard on the panting foe,
Their thunder booms in dying-

Victory!

Tremor has seized on the dastards all,

And their leaders fall!

Victory!

Closed is the brunt of the glorious fight;
And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night!
Trumpet and fife swelling choral along,

The triumph already sweeps marching in song.
Farewell, fallen brothers; though this life be o'er,

There's another, in which we shall meet you once more!

Translated from Schiller by Bulwer.

Over the River.

Over the river they beckon to me

Loved ones who've crossed to the further side;
The gleam of their snowy robes I see,

But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide.
There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,

And eyes, the reflection of heaven's own blue;
He crossed in the twilight, gray and cold,

And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.
We saw not the angels who met him there;
The gates of the city we could not see;
Over the river, over the river,

My brother stands waiting to welcome me!

Over the river, the boatman pale

Carried another-the household pet;

Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale-
Darling Minnie! I see her yet.

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,
And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;
We watched it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.

We know she is safe on the further side,
Where all the ransomed and angels be;
Over the river, the mystic river,

My childhood's idol is waiting for me.

For none return from those quiet shores,
Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;
We hear the dip of the golden oars,

And catch a gleam of the snowy sail,

And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart;
They cross the stream, and are gone for aye;
We may not sunder the veil apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day;
We only know that their bark no more

May sail with us over life's stormy sea;
Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,
They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.

And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold
Is flushing river, and hill, and shore,
I shall one day stand by the water cold,

And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;
I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail;
I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand;
I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,
To the better shore of the spirit land;
I shall know the loved who have gone before,
And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,
When over the river, the peaceful river,
The Angel of Death shall carry me.

The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay."

A LOGICAL STORY.

Miss Priest.

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way

It ran a hundred years to a day,

And then, of a sudden, it-Ah, but stay,

I'll tell you what happened, without delay-
Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits-
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive-
Snuffy old drone from the German hive!
That was the year when Lisbon town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot-
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel or cross-bar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thorough-brace-lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will-
Above or below, or within or without—
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.

But the Deacon swore-(as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum or an "I tell yeou")—
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it couldn' break daown:"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain

Thut the weakes place must stan' the strain; 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

Is only jest

T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split, nor bent, nor broke-
That was for spokes, and floor, and sills;

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