THE NEW YORK FUBLIC LIBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND TILDEN FOUNDATIONS

"WE rustled through the leaves like wind,
Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind.
By night I heard them on the track,
Their troops came hard upon our back,
With their long gallop, which can tire
The houuds' deep hate, and hunter's fire.
Where'er we flew they followed on,
Nor left us with the morning sun.
Behin I saw them, scarce a rood,

At day-break, winding through the wood;
And through the night had heard their feet
Their stealing, rustling step repeat.
Oh! how I wished for spear or sword,
At least to die amidst the horde,

And perish-if it must be so,

At bay, destroying many a foe."

K

MINE OWN.

Mine own, my own, oh! breathes there one
To whom that simple word's not dear?

Beats there a heart so drear and lone,
That holds not some lov'd object near?
Whose spirit, like the arkless bird,

From all companionship has flown,
And finds no gladness in that word,---
Mine own! my own!

Who, dull to every finer tie,

To every soft affection cold, Lives on in cheerless apathy,

And in his very youth seems old! Though frequent cares my mind enthral,

Could wealth, mere earthly wealth, atone For the sweet beings lost, I call

Mine own! my own!

No! time may still but speed to show
How false is hope's delicious song,

And many a sorrow I must know;

But oh! sweet Heaven, may it be long
Ere those I love from me are gone,
And life a wilderness hath grown;

And of earth's millions, there are none
Mine own! my own!

1000

THE HEADSMAN'S TALE.

---000

The tale of Balthazar was simple but eloquent. His union with Marguerite, in spite of the world's obloquy and injustice, had been blessed by the wise and merciful Being who knew how to temper the wind to the shorn lamb. "We knew we were all to each other," he continued, after briefly alluding to the early history of their births and love; "and we felt the necessity of living for ourselves." Ye that are born to honours, who meet with smiles and respectful looks in all ye meet, can know little of the feeling which binds together the unhappy. When God gave us our first-born, as he lay a smiling babe in her lap, looking up into her eye with the innocence that most likens mau to angels, Marguerite shed bitter tears at the thought of such a creature's being condemned by the laws to shed the blood of men. The reflection that he was to live for ever an outcast from his kind, was bitter to a mother's heart. We had made many offers to the canton to be released ourselves from this charge; we had prayed them