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With the joy of life and loving. Gretel wept in bower, apart, With her sad eyes full of sorrow, and a load upon her heart: Often, as she paced the forest, to that turret high she turnea Wistful eye and wishful bosom, where his night-lamp dimly burned.

Then she speeded up the stairway, in the gloaming, like a ghost,

Heeding not the spectral shadows in the corners, nor the hosts

Of grim steel-men,-empty armors,-to his turret-chamber locked;

Then she beat upon its portals; stood, and tremblingly she knocked.

"Dear my lord!" she cried, entreating, "let me in! for 1 have grown

Pale with pining, sad with waiting for your coming, all

alone!"

"Nay," he answered Gretel sternly: "hearken to thy lord's desire

Meddle not with red-hot irons, lest your fingers touch the fire!"

Day by day the same stern answer, day by day more loud she prayed

At the Wizard's turret portal by its terrors undismayed; Till he yielded to her praying-for he loved her-though he told

Of strange horrors she must witness with a courage strong and bold,

And tried to intimidate her; but he only tried in vain : For she beat his portals louder, and besought him once again.

In that dim, mysterious chamber, with its awful gramarye, Gretel only clasped her hands, and begged its wonders

strange to see;

Till worn out with her entreating, he consented to enact For his lady; so he cased him in his wondrous cataphract. Thence he spoke-involuntary fear began to blanch her cheek:

* When the spell is strong upon me, ye must neither scream nor speak!

Fearful things, as I have told ye, ere you forced me with vour prayers,

Must be seen by her who listens, who the Wizard's secret shares!

When the spell is strong upon me, at the wonders you

shall see

If ye lisp a cry of horror it will bring catastrophe!

'Neath this castle, unsuspected, lies a stream, which there hath run

Since the stars were lit in heaven and first blazed the virgin sun!

Bottomless it is, and inky—for there wafts it o'er a breath From the sluggish, dank miasma of the chilly land of death! If ye speak or shriek or whisper when the evil spell is on, Up shall rise the lake-the castle shall be none, ere light of dawn!"

Grave she grew, but brave she listened to the wonders he disclosed,

As she knelt upon a divan, pale and outwardly composed. Now the formula is spoken--barred and locked the turret door;

And the Wizard's form lies writhing like a serpent on the floor.

Horrid! how the scales so burnished on the cataphract, appalled,

Rose and bristled--as the Wizard through the chamber, sinuous, crawled!

Longer stretched his form and thinner, yonder waved the forky tail!

And the serpent's eyes fixed on her, made the Wizard's lady quail.

Nearer came the human monster, till its hot breath fanned

her cheek,

And the gaping jaws seemed ready some dark prophecy to speak.

Hush-a cry. The spell is broken by the lady's piercing shriek!

One loud crash, a sullen murmur sounded through that lonely wood,

And a coal-black tarn was dimpling where the castle lately stood!

And to-day the peasant, stopping, as he passes through that

vale,

Pale with awe, in frightened murmurs, tells the traveler the tale.

GLORIA BELLI.-WILLIAM J. BENNERS, JR.

Written expressly for this Collection.

'Tis early morn. The clash of arms
Is heard midst nature's fairest charms;

Loud peals the bugle's stirring note,

And on the breeze bright banners float;
The trumpet's call echoes afar-
An army marches on to war!

With stately step they pass us by,
Each head with pride erected high;
Each eye with daring bravery fired;
Each heart with deepest hate inspired,-
Hate to the foe they long to meet,
The enemy they must defeat.

Clear on their swords the sunlight glows
And all their glittering armor shows,
While every waving plume with dew
Sparkles like diamonds through and through.
Still swells the thrilling music, still
The brilliant pageant passes, till
The last plume glistens in the sun,
The last sword flashes-they are gone!
'Tis night, the smoke has cleared away
That hid the battle-field all day;
And the pale moon looks coldy down
On Victory with his bloody crown,
Lighting the dreadful place where lie
The dead and those who soon must die.
White faces, stern in death, are there;
Hands clasped and stiffened in despair,
The veteran of many a fight;

The boy with hair still childish bright;
Rank's noblest sons, and those whose fame
Is all forgotten, with their name;
The sunburnt brow, the cheek of snow,
Master and servant, friend and foe-
Are heaped together, pile on pile;
The lips of some wreathed with a smile
While others frown in rage and clutch
Their swords, or on the trigger touch
As if they just had sped the ball,
And, dying, seen the foeman fall;

Some limbless, some with shattered face;
E'en those who loved them could not trace
A feature, but would pass them by
Shuddering, and with averted eye.
Here is a headless body; there,
A head with tangled bloody hair;
And plumes, balls, swords, torn banners, lie
With mangled limbs, mixed horribly.

But oh, the dying! there alone,
Without a tear, or one kind tone,

Praying for water, all in vain

Though blood is round them thick as rain;
Some sobbing like weak women, some
Cursing the day they left their home;
Calling on mother, sister, wife,

To save them from the dreadful strife.

No loved hand wipes the anguished brow;
No kiss is on the hot lips now,

As groaning in deep agony,
Upon the battle-field they die.

But famished wolves a requiem howl,
And o'er the scene of slaughter prowl.
The vulture and her hideous brood,
Drawn by the sickening smell of blood;
And ere the victims cease to feel
Banquet upon their human meal.

Nor is this all. Who can relate
How many homes are desolate;
The widow's lonely grief express;
The sorrow of the fatherless;

Or know what bitter tears are shed
By aged mothers of the dead?

Oh! turn we from the saddening story-
This, this is what the world calls-Glory!

WAITING-AT THE CHURCH DOOR.*
MRS. ALEX. MC VEIGH MILLER.

A moment, scarcely more, I stood
In reverent silence, waiting there;
Nor dared profane with footsteps rude
The brooding hush of earnest prayer.

But in that moment's solemn space
How sad a fancy touched my soul,
And brought me, trembling, face to face
With fears beyond my weak control.

I thought, oh! if I stood to-night

From this chill earthly bondage free,
Were these the golden gates of light-

Would these closed doors swing wide for me?

Written expressly for this Collection,

Would angels harp my welcome home,
Or that dear Lord, too oft forgot,
Reproachfully pronounce my doom:
"Depart from me, I know you not."

Wild thought! my startled spirit swayed
By one sharp pulse of agony,
Wavered on doubting wings, afraid

Of that sad thought that came to me.

But softly fell the deep "Amen!”

And rose the voice of praise in song,
A moment's pause, a step, and then-
I stood among the singing throng.

From darkness into light-oh! heart,
So weary of life's glare and din,
Thus mayst thou hear, oh! not "Depart!"
But "Knock and ye shall enter in."

THE CHOIR'S WAY OF TELLING IT.

Attending services not long ago in an elegant church edifice, where they worship God with taste in a highly æsthetic manner, the choir began that scriptural poem which compares Solomon with the lilies of the field somewhat to the former's disadvantage. Although not possessing a great admiration for Solomon, nor considering him a suitable person to hold up as a shining example -before the Young Men's Christian Association, still a pang of pity for him was felt when the choir, after expressing unbounded admiration for the lilies of the field, which it is doubtful if they ever observed very closely, began to tell the congregation, through the mouth of the soprano, that "Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed.” Straightway the soprano was re-inforced by the bass, who declared that Solomon was most decidedly and emphatically not arrayed,--was not arrayed. Then the alto ventured it as her opinion that Solomon was not arrayed; when the tenor, without a moment's hesitation, sung, as if

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