A whisper went about among the oldest there that she had seen and talked with angels; and, when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed. Thus coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends.

Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place, when the bright moon poured her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all, it seemed to them upon her quiet grave-in that calm time when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fear are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

LORD BYRON

HE Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold,

THE

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when the Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beaten surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,

With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail,
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broken in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS

LEIGH HUNT

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal

sport,

And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, with ladies in their pride, And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed :

And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,

Valor, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws ; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went

with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar then rolled on one another,

Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air;

Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, - - a beauteous lively dame

With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same :

She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be ;

He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of

me;

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."

She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild; His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his

place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat :

"No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

TAXES! TAXES!

SIDNEY SMITH

JOHN BULL can inform Jonathan what are the inevitable consequences of being too fond of glory: - TAXES! taxes upon every article which enters into the mouth, or covers the back, or is placed under foot; taxes upon everything which is pleasant to see, hear, feel, smell, or taste; taxes upon warmth, light, and locomotion; taxes on everything on earth, and the waters under the earth; on everything that comes from abroad, or is grown at home; taxes on the raw material; taxes on every fresh value that is added to it by the industry of man; taxes on the sauce which pampers man's appetite, and the drug that restores him to health; on the ermine which decorates the judge, and the rope which hangs the criminal; on the poor man's salt, and the rich man's spice; on the brass nails of the coffin, and the ribbons of the bride; - at bed or board, couchant or levant, we must pay.

The schoolboy whips his taxed top; the beardless youth manages his horse, with a taxed bridle, on a taxed road;

- and the dying Englishman, pouring his medicine, which has paid seven per cent, into a spoon that has paid fifteen per cent, flings himself back upon his chintz bed, which has paid twenty-two per cent, and makes his will on an eightpound stamp, and expires in the arms of an apothecary

who has paid a license of a hundred pounds for the privilege of putting him to death. His whole property is then immediately taxed from two to ten per cent. Besides the probate, large fees are demanded for burying him in the chancel; his virtues are handed down to posterity on taxed marble; and he is then gathered to his fathers, to be taxed no more.

In addition to all this, the habit of dealing with large sums will make the Government avaricious and profuse; and the system itself will infallibly generate the base vermin of spies and informers, and a still more pestilent race of political tools and retainers of the meanest and most odious description; while the prodigious patronage which the collection of this splendid revenue will throw into the hands of Government, will invest it with so vast an influence, and hold out such means and temptations to corruption, as all the virtue and public spirit, even of Republicans, will be unable to resist. Every wise Jonathan should remember this.

SOME

THE FRETFUL MAN

WILLIAM COWPER

OME fretful tempers wince at every touch;
You always do too little or too much;
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain;
Your elevated voice goes through the brain.
You fall at once into a lower key;-

That's worse, the dronepipe of a bumblebee.
The southern sash admits too strong a light;
You rise and drop the curtain, now 'tis night.