O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow, Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light: "Go! your lover lives,” said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night.' Wide they flung the massive portal; led the prisoner forth to die All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the darkening English sky Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet: Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet, In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me— ROSE HARTWICK THORPE THE MISER WHO LOST HIS TREASURE. T'S use that constitutes possession wholly; True misers live like beggars, people say; In the next life he might be happy, true; He seemed so poor, yet not one hour forgot Scents out the place, and clears the whole, On one fine day the miser came, his soul Inquires the reason of his sighs. "My gold! my gold! they've stolen all." "Your treasure? what was it, and where?" "Why, buried underneath this stone." (A moan!) "Why, man, is this a time of war? Why should you bring your gold so far? Where you could find it any hour THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. The fifth of May came amid wind and rain. Napoleon's passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements around. The words "tete d'armee," (head of the army,) the last which escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a heavy fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening, Napoleon expired. ILD was the night, yet a wilder night A few fond mourners were kneeling by, They knew by his awful and kingly look, By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew, The bearded Russian he scourged again, Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streams He led again, in his dying dreams, His hosts, the broad earth quelling. Again Marengo's field was won, And Jena's bloody battle; Again the world was overrun, Made pale at his cannons' rattle. He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story; In the rocky land they placed his clay, "And 'eft him alone with his glory." B ISAAC MCLEllan. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, But a cannon ball took off his legs, Now as they bore him off the field, Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, When he'd devoured his pay. But when he called on Nelly Gray, "O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray! Said she, "I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave! Before you had those timber toes, But then you know, you stand upon "O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray! For all your cheering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes "O, false and fickle Nelly Gray ; I know why you refuse :Though I've no feet-some other man Is standing in my shoes! 'I wish I n'er had seen your face; But, now, a long farewell! For you will be my death :-alas ! You will not be my Nell!" Now when he went from Nelly Grav, His heart so heavy got And life was such a burthen grown, It made him take a knot! So round his melancholy neck One end he tied around a beam, And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down! A dozen men sat on his corpse, THOMAS HOOD THE MISER'S WILL. HIS tale is true, for so the records show; Young Erfurth loved. But ere the wedding His dearest friend stole with his bride away, Grief finds relief in something found to do, Death came at last; discovering ere he died, The will was read; there to his brothers three The brothers heard, and thought it was no sin The single mourner there, he walked alone. The letter, opened at the Mayor's will, Was found to hold the miser's codicil, To him that disobeyed the will's commands, Should such there be-whose heart knew love or pity Or, failing, all went to his native city. And so the friend who stole his bride away; GEORGE BIrdseye. THE TALE OF A TRAMP. ET me sit down a moment; A stone's got into my shoe. And gin got in my nose. Me and my wife, and Nellie- Had 'em from near and fur; Handsome, young and tall- But you know young girls' will. Common enough, you say— But he was a soft-tongued devil, And got her to run away. More than a month, or later, We heard from the poor young thing¬ He had run away and left her Without any weddin'-ring! Back to her home we brought her, Filled with a ragin' fever, She fell at my feet and died! And I'll be on my way, And I'll tramp till I catch that scoundrel, If it takes till the judgment day. LITTLE GOLDEN-HAIR. ITTLE Golden-hair was watching, in the window broad and high, For the coming of her father, who had gone the foe to fight; He had left her in the morning, and had told her not to cry, But to have a kiss all ready when he came to her at night. She had wandered, all the day, And had asked, as time went on, She had heard the muskets firing, she had counted every one, Till the number grew so many that it was too great a load; Little Golden-hair had listened, not a single week be- And upon the dead face smiling, with the living one fore, While the heavy sand was falling on her mother's coffin-lid; near by, All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams gently flowed! And she loved her father better for the loss that then One to live a lonely orphan, one beneath the sod to she bore, And thought of him and yearned for him, whatever else she did. So she wondered all the day What could make her father stay, And she cried a little too, As he told her not to do. And the sun sunk slowly downward and went grandly out of sight, And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be bestowed; But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight grew to night, And she looked, and looked, and listened, down the dusty Concord road. Then the night grew light and lighter, and the moon rose full and round, In the little sad face peering, looking piteously and mild; Stiil upon the walks of gravel there was heard no welcome sound, And no father came there, eager for the kisses of his child. Long and sadly did she wait, Lest he might have come to harm. With no bonnet but her tresses, no companion but her fears, And no guide except the moonbeams that the pathway dimly showed, With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her tears, And alone she bravely started down the dusty Concord road. And for many a mile she struggled, full of weariness and pain, Calling loudly for her father, that her voice he might not miss ; Till at last, among a number of the wounded and the slain, Was the white face of the soldier, waiting for his daughter's kiss. 'AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it—Ah, but stay, Frightening people out of their wits- Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, It was on the terrible earthquake-day Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, But the deacon swore-(as deacons do, With an "I dew vum" or an "I tell yeou,")— He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown :— "Fur," said the deacon, "'t's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest." So the deacon inquired of the village folk That was for spokes, and floor, and sills; And the wedges flew from between their lips, Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Eighteen hundred-it came, and found Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year First of November-the earthquake day.— For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. The parson was working his Sunday text- What do you think the parson found, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL. LL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept. O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through. the night! O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light! One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke, But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day, And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay. Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air. But the foeman held possession of the hard-won battleplain, In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. |