o'er;

Hushed its long echoes through the lofty

dome;

And now Bernardo knew th' appointed hour That he had prayed for of a truth was

come.

Alone he lingered in the solemn pile
Where darkness gained apace from aisle to

aisle.

The feast made ready that first act to

crown,

Nor to peruse that wondrous mystery

Of the divine Menino's coming down. To lead away th' elect expectant three With him that night at his own board to be. Suffice it that with him they surely were

That night in Paradise, for they who came Next to the chapel found them as in prayer

Still kneeling, stiffened every lifeless frame, With hands and eyes upraised, as when they died,

Toward the image of the Crucified.

That mighty miracle spread far and wide, And thousands came the feast of death to

see,

And all beholders, deeply edified,

Returned to their own homes more thoughtfully,

way

To that small chapel; like a golden clue Streamed on before that long bright sunset

ray,

Till at the door it stopped. Then, pass

ing through,

The master and his pupils side by side Knelt down in prayer before the Crucified.

Tall tapers burnt before the holy shrine;

Chalice and paten on the altar stood, Spread with fair damask. Of the crimson wine

Partaking first alone, the living food Bernardo next with his dear children shared-Young lips, but well for heavenly food prepared.

prest

That "to depart and be with Christ is best."

Translation of BLACKWOOD.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

UR bugles sang truce, for the nightcloud had lowered,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in

sky,

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered

The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of

straw

By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,

At the dead of the night a sweet vision

I saw,

THERE IS NO WASTE.

again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful

array

Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;

'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosoin was young;

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating

aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn

reapers sung.

gold

HEN midnight hour is come,
The drummer forsakes his tomb,

I swore

To and fro through the ghastly gloom.

He plies the drumsticks twain

With fleshless fingers pale, And beats and beats again and again

A long and dreary reveille.

Like the voice of abysmal waves

Resounds its unearthly tone, Till the dead old soldiers long in their graves Awaken through every zone,

And the slain in the land of the Hun, And the frozen in the icy North,

away.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Of Italy sleep, come forth,