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That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over. Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit exhausted Seemed to be sinking down through infinite depths in the dark

ness,

Darkness of slumber and death, forever sinking and sinking.
Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverberations,
Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded
Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
"Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence.

Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them,

Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision.
Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids,
Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.
Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue
would have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into dark

ness,

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow,
All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing,
All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience!
And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,
Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank
thee!"

I

PASSING UNDER THE ROD.

"Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth."

SAW the young bride, in her beauty and pride,

Bedeck'd in her snowy array;

And the bright flush of joy mantled high on her cheek,
And the future looked blooming and gay:

And with woman's devotion she laid her fond heart

At the shrine of idolatrous love,

And she anchor'd her hopes to this perishing earth,

By the chain which her tenderness wove.

But I saw when those heartstrings were bleeding and torn, And the chain had been sever'd in two,

She had changed her white robes for the sables of grief,
And her bloom for the paleness of woe!

But the Healer was there, pouring balm on her heart,
And wiping the tears from her eyes,

And he strengthen'd the chain he had broken in twain,
And fasten'd it firm to the skies!

There had whisper'd a voice-'t was the voice of her God, "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!”

I saw the young mother in tenderness bend
O'er the couch of her slumbering boy,

And she kiss'd the soft lips as they murmur'd her name,
While the dreamer lay smiling in joy.

Oh, sweet as a rose-bud encircled with dew,
When its fragrance is flung on the air,

So fresh and so bright to the mother he seem'd,

As he lay in his innocence there.

But I saw when she gazed on the same lovely form,
Pale as marble, and silent, and cold,

But paler and colder her beautiful boy,

And the tale of her sorrow was told!

But the Healer was there who had stricken her heart,
And taken her treasure away,

To allure her to heaven he has placed it on high,

And the mourner will sweetly obey:

There had whisper'd a voice--'t was the voice of her God, "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!”

I saw too a father and mother who lean'd

On the arms of a dear gifted son,

And the star in the future grew bright to their gaze,
As they saw the proud place he had won:

And the fast-coming evening of life promised fair,
And its pathway grew smooth to their feet,

And the starlight of love glimmered bright at the end,
And the whispers of fancy were sweet.

And I saw them again, bending low o'er the grave,

Where their heart's dearest hope had been laid,
And the star had gone down in the darkness of night,
And the joy from their bosoms had fled.

But the Healer was there, and his arms were around,
And he led them with tenderest care:

And he showed them a star in the bright upper world,

'Twas their star shining brilliantly there!

They had each heard a voice-'t was the voice of their God, "I love thee-I love thee-pass under the rod!"

SIGN

SHYLOCK TO ANTONIO.

IGNIOR Antonio, many a time and oft
In the Rialto you have rated me

About my moneys, and my usances:

Still have I borne it with a patient shrug;
For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe:
You call me- misbeliever, cut-throat, dog,
And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
And all for use of that which is mine own.
Well then, it now appears, you need my help!
Go to, then; you come to me, and you say,
Shylock, we would have moneys: you say so,
You, that did void your rheum upon my beard,
And foot me, as you spurn a stranger cur
Over your threshold; moneys is your suit.
What should I say to you? Should I not say,
Hath a dog money? is it possible,

A cur can lend three thousand ducats? or
Shall I bend low, and in a bondman's key,
With 'bated breath, and whispering humbleness,
Say this?

Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;
You spurned me such a day; another time
You called me-
dog; and for these courtesies
I'll lend you thus much moneys.

"THE

THE BOYS.

HE boys are coming home to-morrow!"
Thus our rural hostess said:

Whilst Lou and I shot flitting glances,

Full of vague, unspoken dread.

Had we hither come for quiet,
Hither fled the city's noise,
But to change it for the tumult
Of those horrid country-boys?

Waking one with wild hallooing
Early every summer day;
Shooting robins, tossing kittens,
Frightening the wrens away:

Stumbling over trailing flounces,

Thumbing volumes gold and blue;

Clamoring for sugared dainties,

Tracking earth the passage through.

These and other kindred trials

Fancied we with woful sigh:

"Those boys, those horrid boys, to-morrow!" Sadly whispered Lou and I.

I wrote those lines one happy summer;
To-day I smile to read them o'er,
Remembering how full of terror

We watched all day the opening door.

They came

"the boys!" Six feet in stature, Graceful, easy, polished men;

I vowed to Lou, behind my knitting,
To trust no mother's words again.

For boyhood is a thing immortal

To every mother's heart and eye; And sons are boys to her forever, Change as they may to you and I.

To her, no line comes sharply marking
Whither or when their childhood went;
Nor when the eyeglass upward turning,
Levelled at last their downward bent.

Now by the window, still and sunny,
Warmed by the rich October glow,
The dear old lady waits and watches,
Just as she waited years ago.

For Lou and I are now her daughters-
We married "those two country-boys,"
In spite of all our sad forebodings

About their awkward ways, and noise.

Lou springs up to meet a footfall;
I list no more for coming feet:
Mother and I are waiting longer

For steps on Beulah's golden street.

But when she blesses Lou's beloved,
And seals it with a tender kiss,
I know that loving words go upward,
Words to another world than this.

Alway she speaks in gentle fashion
About "my boys"-she always will;
Though one is gray, and one has vanished
Beyond the touch of time or ill.

THE TWO MAIDENS.

NE came

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with light and laughing air,

And cheek like opening blossom; Bright gems were twined amid her hair,

And glittered on her bosom;

And pearls and costly bracelets deck

Her round, white arms, and lovely neck.

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