WILD was the night; yet a wilder night

Hung round the soldier's pillow;

In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.

A few fond mourners were kneeling by,
The few that his stern heart cherished;
They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perished.

They knew by his awful and kingly look,

By the order hastily spoken,

That he dreamed of the days when the nations shook, And the nation's hosts were broken.

He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumphed the Frenchman's "eagle; "
And the struggling Austrian fled anew,
Like the hare before the beagle.

The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
And again on the hills of haughty Spain,
His mighty armies shouted.

Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids, at the mountain,

Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows,
And by the Italian fountain;

in Marengo's field was won, nd Jena's bloody battle;

in the world was overrun,

ade pale at his cannon's rattle.

died at the close of that darksome day, - day that shall live in story:

he rocky land they placed his clay, nd left him alone with his glory.

ONWARD, ONWARD

LINNEUS BANKS

RD! Onward is the language of creation. The whisper it in their courses; the seasons breathe succeed each other; the night wind whistles it; of the deep roars it out; the mountains lift up s, and tell it to the clouds; and Time, the hoarytentate, proclaims it with an iron tongue! From lime, from ocean to ocean, from century to cenfrom planet to planet, all is onward.

the smallest rivulet down to the unfathomable thing is onward. Cities hear its voice and rise agnificence; nations hear it and sink into the onarchs learn it and tremble on their thrones; Es feel it, and are convulsed as with an earthquake.

Men, customs, fashions, tastes, opinions, and prejudices, are all onward. States, counties, towns, districts, cities, and villages, are all onward. That word never ceases .to influence the destinies of men. Science cannot arrest it, nor philosophy divert it from its purpose. It flows with the very blood in our veins, and every second of time. chronicles its progress.

From one stage of civilization to another, from one towering landmark to another, from one altitude of glory to another, we still move upward and onward. Thus did our forefathers escape the barbarisms of past ages; thus do we conquer the errors of our time and draw nearer to the invisible.

So must we move onward, with our armor bright, our weapons keen, and our hearts firm as the "everlasting hills." Every muscle must be braced, every nerve strung, every energy roused, and every thought watchful. Onward is the watchword!

THE WIND

LETITIA E. LANDON

HE wind has a language, I would I could learn;

THE

Sometimes 'tis soothing, and sometimes 'tis stern; Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet song,

And all things grow calm, as the sound floats along;
And the forest is lulled by the dreamy strain;
And slumber sinks down on the wandering main;
And its crystal arms are folded in rest,

And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving breast.

THE

THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

HE melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown

and sere.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie

dead;

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the

jay,

And from the wood top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! They all are in their graves; the gentle race of flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of

ours.

The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November

rain

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again.

The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier rose and the orchids died amid the summer

glow;

fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come,

call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;

en the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no

more.

then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side;

e cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,

we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief;

not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of

ours,

entle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.