I, certes, in those days

Was a confirmed blasphemer. 'Tis on record
That once, by way of sacrilegious joke,
A chapel being sacked, I lit my pipe
At a wax candle burning on the altar.

This time, however, I was awed - so blanched
Was that old man.

Not a soul budged.

"Shoot him!" our captain cried. The priest, beyond all doubt,

Heard; but as though he heard not. Turning round, He faced us, with the elevated host,

Having that period of the service reached

When on the faithful benediction falls.

His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings;

And as he raised the pyx, and in the air
With it described the cross, each man of us

Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling
Than if before him the devout were ranged.
But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice,
The words came to us,

Deus Omnipotens!"

"Vos benedicat

The captain's order

Rang out again, and sharply, "Shoot him down,
Or I shall swear!" Then one of ours, a dastard,
Levelled his gun, and fired. Upstanding still,
The priest changed color, though with steadfast look
Set upwards, and indomitably stern.

"Pater et Filius!"'

Came the words. What frenzy,

What maddening thirst for blood, sent from our ranks Another shot, I know not; but 'twas done.

The monk, with one hand on the altar's ledge,
Held himself up; and, strenuous to complete
His benediction, in the other raised

The consecrated host. For the third time
Tracing in air the symbol of forgiveness,
With eyes closed, and in tones exceeding low,
But in the general hush distinctly heard,
"Et Sanctus Spiritus!"

He said; and, ending

His service, fell down dead.

The golden pyx

Rolled bounding on the floor. Then, as we stood,
Even the old troopers, with our muskets grounded, .
And choking horror in our hearts, at sight
Of such a shameless murder, and at sight
Of such a martyr, with a chuckling laugh,
"Amen!"

Drawled out a drummer-boy.

Macmillan's Magazine.

"CONQUERED AT LAST."

Some time ago "The Mobile Evening News" offered a prize for the poem, by a Southern writer, which should be judged most meritorious, expressive of the gratitude of the Southern heart toward the people of the North for the philanthropy and magnanimity so freely and nobly displayed in the time of the dire affliction of the South by pestilence." There were seventy-seven competitors. widely scattered; and their work was carefully examined by a competent committee, who decided that a poem entitled "Conquered at Last," by Miss Maria L. Eve of Augusta, Ga., though it was rough in construction, yet for its brevity, directness, spirit, and force, most truly represented the real sentiment of the Southern people. The following is the poem:

You came to us once, O brothers! in wrath,
And rude desolation followed your path.

You conquered us then, but only in part,
For a stubborn thing is the human heart.

So the mad wind blows in his might and main,
And the forests bend to his breath like grain;

Their heads in the dust, and their branches broke;
But how shall he soften their hearts of oak?

You swept o'er our land like the whirlwind's wing,
But the human heart is a stubborn thing.

We laid down our arms, we yielded our will;
But our "heart of hearts was unconquered still.

"We are vanquished,” we said, "but our wounds must heal;" We gave you our swords, but our hearts were steel.

"We are conquered," we said, but our hearts were sore, And "woe to the conquered,” on every door.

But the spoiler came, and he would not spare:
The angel that walketh in darkness was there.

He walked through the valley, walked through the street,
And he left the print of his fiery feet

In the dead, dead, dead, that were everywhere,
And buried away with never a prayer.

From the desolate land, from its very heart,
There went forth a cry to the uttermost part.

You heard it, O brothers! With never a measure
You opened your hearts, and poured out your treasure.

O Sisters of Mercy, you gave above these!

For

you helped, we know, on your bended knees.

Your pity was human, but, oh! it was more,
When you shared our cross, and our burden bore.

Your lives in your hands, you stood by our side;
Your lives for our lives you laid down, and died.

And no greater love hath a man to give,

Than lay down his life that his friends may live.

You poured in our wounds the oil and the wine
That you brought to us from a Hand divine.

You conquered us, brothers; our swords we gave:
We yield now our hearts - they are all we have.

Our last ditch was there, and it held out long
It is yours, O friends! and you'll find it strong.

Your love had a magic diviner than art;

And "Conquered by kindness," we'll write on our heart.

THE SHIP-BOY'S

LETTER.

HERE'S a letter from Robin, father,

A letter from over the sea.

I was sure that the spark in the wick last night
Meant there was one for me;

And I laughed to see the postman's face
Look in at the dairy park,

For you said it was so woman-like
To put my trust in a spark.

"Dear father and mother and granny,
I write on the breech of a gun,
And think, as I sit at the porthole,
And look at the setting sun,
Father's chatting away beside you,
While you 'holy-stone' the porch,
Or are getting clean rigging ready
For to-morrow's cruise to church.

"You mustn't be hard on the writing;
For, what with ropes and tar,
My fingers won't crook as they ought to,
And spelling is harder far;
And every minute a lurch comes,

And spoils the looks of my i's;
And I blot 'em instead of dot 'em,

And I can't get my words of a size.

"Tell Bessie I don't forget her;

But every Saturday night,

When were're talking of home in the twilight, Or our lamps are all alight,

And I'm asked to tell the lass I love,

I name sweet Bessie Green."

(O father, to think of his doing that, And the monkey scarce fifteen !)

"And, granny, the yarns you spin all day,

In the corner off the door,

Won't be half so long and so tough as mine,
When I see you all ashore.

You maybe won't swallow flying-fish,
But I'll bring you one or two,
And some Maltese lace for topsail gear,
And a fan for — you know who.

"Then good-by to each dear face at home,
Till I press it with my lips,

While you pray each night for 'ships at sea,'
And God speed all sea ships!'

I smile as I rock in my hammock,

Through storms may shriek and strain,
For I feel, when we pray for each other,
We're sure to meet again."

AN IRISH

LOVE-LETTER.

A SCENE FROM GEORGE M. BAKER'S NEW PLAY (FOR FEMALE CHARACTERS ONLY) IN THREE ACTS, ENTITLED REBECCA'S TRIUMPH.

66

Characters: KATY, an Irish servant, GYP, a colored girl; DORA, a young lady.

(Enter KATY, with a letter in her hand.)

KATY (turning letter over and over). An' sure I got a love-lether frum Patsy; an' phat will I do wid it I duuno. I can't rade, and the misthress is away wid the company girls. How will I find out phat's inside it? It's bothered I am intirely.

(Enter from L., through c door, DORA.)

DORA. Ah, Katy! Is it ther yees are? Where's Mrs. Delaine's shawl? I see it. (Goes towards window R ) KATY. If yees plase, Miss Dora, might I be after trou bling yees?

DORA (comes down). Certainly, Katy.

trouble?

KATY. If yees plase, I have a lether.

DORA. From the ould counthry?

KATY. No, indade: it's from

afther laughin' if I tole yees.

What's the

it's from

sure you'll be

DORA. Then you needn't tell me, Katy: I can guess.

It's a love-letter.

KATY. An' who towld yees that?