Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons,-drop thy curtain over all!

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued,

Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint, and lacking food;

Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung,

And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh its Eden flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,

And still Thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!

BEAUTIFUL SNOW.

(WATSON.)

O, the snow, the beautiful snow,
Filling the sky and the earth below;
Over the house-tops, over the street,
Over the heads of the people you meet;
Dancing, flirting, skimming along,
Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong;
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek,
Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak,-
Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,
Pure as an angel, and fickle as love!

O, the snow, the beautiful snow!

How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!
Whirling about in its maddening fun,
It plays in its glee with every one.
Chasing, laughing, hurrying by.

It lights up the face, and it sparkles the eye;
And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,
Snap at the crystals that eddy around.
The town is alive, and its heart in a glow
To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How the wild crowd goes swaying along,
Hailing each other with humor and song!
How the gay sledges, like meteors flash by,
Bright for a moment, then lost to the eye!
Ringing, swinging, dashing they go,
Over the crest of the beautiful snow;
Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,
To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by:
To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet,
Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

Once I was pure as the snow, but I fell;
Fell, like the snow-flakes from heaven-to hell;
Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street;
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat.
Pleading, cursing, dreading to die,

Selling my soul to whoever would by,-
Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,
Hating the living, and fearing the dead.
Merciful God! have I fallen so low?

And yet I was once like the beautiful snow!

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow
Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!
How strange it would be, when the night comes a
If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!
Fainting, freezing, dying-alone!

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan

To be heard in the crash of the crazy town,

Gone mad in their joy at the snow's coming down ;

To lie and to die in my terrible woe,

With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!

OVER THE RIVER.

Over the river they beckon to me,

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

But their voices are drowned by 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 that met him there,—
The gate 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 closed 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 glimpse of the snowy sail;

And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,They cross the stream and are gone for aye.

We may not sunder the vail apart

That hides from our vision the gates of day;

We only know that their barks no more
Sail with us o'er 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 flashing on river, and hill, and shore,
I shall one day stand by the waters cold

And list to 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.

NOTHING TO WEAR.

(BUTLER.)

Miss Flora McFlimsey, of Madison Square,
Has made three separate journeys to Paris;
And her father assures me, each time she was there,
That she and her friend, Mrs. Harris,
Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping,
In one continuous round of shopping;

Shopping alone and shopping together,

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather,
For all manner of things that a woman can put
On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist;
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind, above or below;

Dresses for home, and the street, and the hall,

Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall;—

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since

the day

All this merchandise went in twelve carts up Broadway,
This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square,
When asked to a ball was in utter despair,
Because she had nothing whatever to wear!
But the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising;
I find there exists the greatest distress
In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress;
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear!"

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt Their children have gathered, their hovels have built; Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,

Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold;

See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,

All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street, Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,— Spoiled children of fashion,-you've nothing to wear!

And O, if perchance there should be a sphere, Where all is made right which so puzzles us here; Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime; Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; O, daughters of earth! foolish virgins, beware! Lest, in that upper realm,-you have nothing to wear!