Again I caught my father's voice in sharp word of command:

"Charge!" a clash of steel: "Charge again, the rebels stand. Smite and spare not, hand to hand; smite and spare not, hand to hand."

There swelled a tumult at the gate, high voices waxing higher;

A flash of red reflected light lit the cathedral spire;

I heard a cry for faggots, then I heard a yell for fire.

"Sit and roast there with your meat, sit and bake there with your bread,

You who sat to see us starve," one shrieking woman said: Sit on your throne and roast with your crown upon your head."

Nay, this thing will I do, while my mother tarrieth,

I will take my fine spun gold, but not to sew therewith,
I will take my gold and gems, and rainbow fan and wreath;

With a ransom in my lap, a king's ransom in my hand,
I will go down to this people, will stand face to face,-will
stand

Where they curse king, queen, and princess of this cursed land.

They shall take all to buy them bread, take all I have to give;

I, if I perish, perish; they to-day shall eat and live;

I, if I perish, perish; that's the goal I half conceive:

Once to speak before the world, rend bare my heart and show

The lesson I have learned which is death, is life, to know. I, if I perish, perish; in the name of God I go.

O, BREATHE NOT HIS NAME!-THOMAS MOORE.
(ROBERT EMMETT.)

O, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid;
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we we shed,
As the night dew that falls on the grave o'er his head.

But the night dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it roils,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

MOTH-EATEN.-MARGARET E. SANGSTER,

I had a beautiful garment,
And I laid it by with care;

I folded it close with lavender leaves
In a napkin fine and fair;

"It is far too costly a robe," I said,

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For one like me to wear."

So never at morn or evening

I put my garment on;

It lay by itself, under clasp and key,
In the perfumed dust alone,
Its wonderful broidery hidden
Till many a day had gone.

There were guests who came to my portal,
There were friends who sat with me,
And clad in soberest raiment

I bore them company;

I knew that I owned a beautiful robe,
Though its splendor none might see.

There were poor who stood at my portal,
There were orphaned sought my care;

I gave them the tenderest pity,

But had nothing besides to spare;
I had only the beautiful garment,
And the raiment for daily wear.

At last, on a feast day's coming,
I thought in my dress to shine;
I would please myself with the lustre
Of its shifting colors fine;

I would walk with pride in the marvel
Of its rarely rich design.

So out from the dust I bore it-
The lavender fell away--
And fold on fold I held it up
To the searching light of day.
Alas! the glory had perished
While there in its place it lay.
Who seeks for the fadeless beauty
Must seek for the use that seals
To the grace of a constant blessing
The beauty that use reveals.
For into the folded robe alone

The moth with its blighting steals.

MR. BOSBYSCHELL'S CONFESSION.

It was very late Saturday night when Mr. Bosbyschell came home. It was very nearly Sunday morning. He did not come in the usual way. He did not open the gate. He climbed over it, although there was no apparent reason why he should get into the yard in that way. And he climbed on the gate with an affectation of great stealth and with a reality of great difficulty.

He slammed himself up against the gate with great violence and a terrific crash, and closed one eye and looked around him at the midnight solitude and said "—ah!” several times.

Then he clambered to the top of the gate and kicked against it with his feet as he scrambled up, and made such a racket that every dog on South Hill woke up and began calling all the other dogs' names, while Mr. Bosbyschell · balancing himself on the top of the gate, rattled it so furiously, in his unsteady violence, the dogs could scarcely hear each other, and Mr. B. repeatedly put one hand to his mouth, and said "-sh!" in the same warning tones, and winked, in a very laborious and uncertain manner, in the several and general directions of the noisy and invisible dogs, to indicate that he was doing something powerful sly, and wanted to keep most awful shady about it. Then he began to climb over and let himself down on the inside of the gate.

Now the gate was unfastened, and when Mr. Bosbyschell transferred his weight to the inside, it flew wide open, banged itself up against the fence, and Mr. Bosbyschell, as he let himself down on the sidewalk, on the outside of the fence, distorted his face into such an expression of malignant and fiendish cunning as would have silenced every dog on the hill, could they have seen it. Then with stealthy steps he tiptoed across the street in a zigzag manner, holding a finger on his lips to impress the sleeping world and the voiceless night around him with silence, while he pursued his cautious way, as he supposed, to his own front door. His amazement, when he found another row of shade trees, another fence and another closed gate confronting

him, was simply colossal. He stared until his eyes ached, then declaring that it was " pef'ly increpemsivel," by which he was understood to convey the idea that it was "perfectly incomprehensible," he retraced his steps and after staring very hard at his open gate, plunged through it, bulged up the front steps, fell against the front door, and while he struggled to regain an erect posture, said "-sh!” at warning intervals.

Some one, a figure arrayed in white, with frills around its head and blood in its eye, let him in, and he lunged with easy grace into the first chair that went past him, after he had made several vain attempts to seat himself on the piano. The reproachful figure of Mrs. Bosbyschell regarded him with calm severity, and her icy silence made him feel uncomfortable.

66

'Moggareck," he said thickly, but with grave earnestness, 'Moggareck," (Mrs. Bosbyschell's front name is Margaret) “I've—hic—I've gotta—gotta quickened coshience.”

"A what?" asked Mrs. Bosbyschell, in calm disdain.

"A quicked coshience,” repeated Mr. Bosbyschell. “A quicked coshience. A-hic-I've got something ommy min', Moggart. I've gotta-hic-coffessiol-codfessiongottacoffession t' make."

"You can make it in the morning," she said, imperiously. "I am going to bed. You may sleep where you please, or rather, where you can."

"Naw," protested Mr. Bosbyschell, with much vehemence, "can't-cant wait; hic; can'tgot'sleep 'ith th’sload ommy— ommy mind. Got coffession t'make, an' mus'—mus' make it. Done suthin', Moggart, hic-been-been a-beena load ommy mind long time. Been—hic—carryin' guilty secret 'round 'ith me too long. Quicked coshience won' gimme— won'gimme nope-hic-no peace. Mus' tell you. Sumpin', Mogert, sumpin' 'll s'prise you. I've—”

Mercy on me, man!" exclaimed Mrs. Bosbyschell, startled from her composure, "what have you been doing? Tell me quick, tell me, for goodness sake!"

"Moggart," said Mr. Bosbyschell, "it's sumthin' ye nevhic-never suspect-suspected. It'll mos' kill ye. Hic! S'pec' it 'll n-nigh drive ye crazy. 'Sawful t' think 'bout it.

Y'-y'wouldn' b'lieve it of me, Margart, y'-ye wouldn'. I've been--"

“Speak!” shrieked the almost frantic woman, “I'm wild with suspense! Speak, tell me all, quick! Oh, I could tear her eyes out! Tell me, you brute, what is her name? Who is she!"

“Wh--wh-hic! Who'sh who!" demanded Mr. Bosbyschell, in blank amazement.

"The woman, you wretch!" screamed his wife; "who is the woman?"

"Oh, shaw, Moggart," ejaculated Mr. Bosbyschell, “tain' th-hic-that. Wussen that. 'Smore dreadful-hic-'smore crushin'. You-hic, y'won't hardly b’lieve it—hic- w'en tell ye. Moggart-”

t

"Speak," wailed the anxious woman, wringing her hands, "speak: let me know the worst! What have you been doing?"

66

Margart," said Mr. Bosbyschell, solemnly, and with the air of a man upon whom a quickened conscience had wrought its perfect work, “Margart” he said, nerving himself for the shock of confession, “Margart, I've-—hic—I've been drinking!"

There was a dull, heavy sound, as the ottoman caromed on Mr. Bosbyschell's head, and he looked out from his recumbent posture under the piano just in time to see a form robed in snowy white speed swiftly up the hall stairs with an expression of disgust on its marble features. And out in the azure skies the eternal stars looked down at the swinging gate, and peeped in at the sleeping figure under the piano, and winked at the drowsy hall lamp that had smelled so much whisky it had burned itself out in a whisky fit, and the sad, voiceless spirit of the night sat on the front fence and brooded with a tender mystery over the devious ways of wayward, fallen man.

THE COUNTERSIGN.

Alas! the weary hours pass slow,
The night is very dark and still,
And in the marshes far below

I hear the bearded whip-poor-will.