Down at Springfield? What, no! Come-that's bad; why, he

had

All the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the name
Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge,
For he loved the Lord God-and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
Marched up with Knyphausen they stopped on their way
At the "Farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew
But God-and that one of the hireling crew
Who fired the shot! Enough!-there she lay,
And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

Did he preach-did he pray? Think of him as you stand
By the old church to-day;—think of him and that band
Of militant plowboys? See the smoke and the heat
Of that reckless advance-of that straggling retreat!
Keep the ghost of that wife. foully slain, in your view-
And what could you-what should you, what would you do?
Why, just what he did! They were left in the lurch
For want of more wadding. He ran to the church,
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out to the road
With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load
At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots
Rang his voice "Put Watts into 'em,-boys, give 'em Watts!"

CXXIX.-ROLL CALL.

"CORPORAL GREEN!" the Orderly cried;

"Here!" was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of a soldier standing near, And "Here!" was the word the next replied.

"Cyrus Drew!"-and a silence fell;

This time no answer followed the call;
Only his rear-man saw him fall,

Killed or wounded, he could not tell.
K.N. E.-28.

There they stood in the failing light,
These men of battle, with grave, dark looks,
As plain to be read as open books,
While slowly gathered the shades of night.

The fern on the slope was splashed with blood,
And down in the corn where the poppies grew
Were redder stains than the poppies knew;
And crimson dyed was the river's flood.

For the foe had crossed from the other side
That day in the face of a murderous fire
That swept them down in its terrible ire;
And their life-blood went to color the tide.

"Herbert Kline!" At the call there came
Two stalwart soldiers into the line,
Bearing between them Herbert Kline,
Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name.

"Ezra Kerr!" and a voice said "Here!"

"Hiram Kerr!" but no man replied.

They were brothers, these two, the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the corn-field near.

"Ephraim Deane!" Then a soldier spoke:

Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; "When our Ensign was shot. I left him dead, Just after the enemy wavered and broke.

"Close to the road-side his body lies;

I paused a moment and gave him to drink; He murmured his mother's name, I think; And death came with it and closed his eyes."

'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear,

For that company's roll when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered, "Here!" -N. G. Shepherd.

CXXX.-BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

THE warrior bowed his crested head and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!—Oh, break my father's chain!"

"Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day!

Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way."

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band,

With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see.”

His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went;

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent;

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took-
What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold-a frozen thing-it dropped from his like lead!

He looked up to the face above-the face was of the dead!

A plume waved o'er the noble brow-the brow was fixed and

white;

He met at last his father's eyes—but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed; but who could paint

that gaze?

They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze

They might have chained him as before that stony form he

stood,

For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then:

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown— He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,

"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now, My king is false-my hope betrayed! My father-O! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet!

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had

met!

Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then-for thee my fields were won;

And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,

Amid the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train;
And, with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse

led,

And sternly set them face to face-the king before the dead:

"Came I not forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?

If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life through this cold clay!

"Into these glassy eyes put light-be still! keep down thine ire! Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire— Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was

shed!

Thou canst not?—and a king!-his dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell. Upon the silent face, He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place.

His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strainHis banner led the spears no more amid the hills of Spain. -Mrs. Hemans.

CXXXI.-MACARIUS THE MONK.

IN the old days, while yet the church was young,
And men believed that praise of God was sung
In curbing self as well as singing psalms,
There lived a monk, Macarius by name,

A holy man, to whom the faithful came,

With hungry hearts, to hear the wondrous Word.
In sight of gushing springs and sheltering palms,
He lived upon the desert; from the marsh
He drank the brackish water, and his food
Was dates and roots-and all his rule was harsh,
For pampered flesh in those days warred with good.

From those who came in scores, a few there were
Who feared the devil more than fast and prayer,
And there remained, and took the hermit's vow.
A dozen saints there grew to be; and now,
Macarius, happy, lived in larger care,
He taught his brethern all the lore he knew,
And, as they learned, his pious rigors grew.
His whole intent was on the spirit's goal;

He taught them silence-words disturb the soul;
He warned of joys, and bade them pray for sorrow,
And he prepared to-day for death to-morrow;

To know that human life alone was given.