Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves,So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept.

l'erchance the bald old eagle, On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight. Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot;

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

Lo! when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car.

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed, While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,

With costly marble dressed,

In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall,

And the choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior

That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hill side for his pall:
To lie in state while angels wait,
With stars for tapers tali;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave?—

In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again,—Oh wondrous thought!—
Before the judgment day;

And stand, with glory wrapped around,

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With the incarnate Son of God!

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace,-

Ways that we can not tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him he loved so well.

THE OCTOROON.

[The first part of this selection I found in an old volume of poems, by Carleton-not the well-known Mr. Will Carleton-the latter part is my own composition. I have also taken the liberty to change the first part somewhat.-B. W. KING.]

In the palmy days of slavery,

A score of years ago,
A pretty, dark-skinned Octoroon
Was singing soft and low
A song to please her baby
As in her arms it lay,

A dainty, dimpled, fair-haired boy-
A twelve-month old that day.

Strange home for child or mother!
For her quick ear often heard,
'Mid the clink of dice and glasses,
Many a loud and angry word.
For her Philip was a gambler;

But she never dreamed or thought

Of any shame or sorrow

For the wrongs he might have wrought.

"He plays 'seven-up' 'till midnight,"
She often laughing told,
"And then, like other gentlemen,

Comes home and counts his gold."

So she was always happy,

Singing French, songs, sweet and wild,
With a voice as full of music

As the laughter of a child.
But, one midnight, she was waiting
For his footstep on the stair,
Came a sound of measured meaning
Throbbing on the silent air!

Came a sound of troubled voices,
Filling all her soul with dread-
Comrades, bearing up a burden,

Cold and lifeless! Phil was dead!
Like a sudden blow, it smote her
With a desolate sense of grief,
But no faintness came to shield her,
And no tears to bring relief.

Oh, to escape the heart-ache,

And the dumb, bewildering pain,
How gladly would she fall asleep
And never wake again!

Yet, she watched with heart near breaking
As they bore his form away;
Then she listened to the prosing
Of two lawyers, old and gray,

As they talked of debts of honor,
Of the house, and horses fine,
Of plate, perhaps, and jewels;
Of furniture and wine;

Then! Ah, then, what was the meaning
Of the words they muttered o'er?
As they said: "The wench and baby
Ought to bring a thousand more!"

Quickened ear and comprehension

Caught each careless tone and word; Knew too well the tricks of trade

To doubt the fearful truth she heard. But when they so roughly told her :

"There will be a sale to-morrow!" Her voice broke forth in piteous wail Of bitterness and sorrow:

"O, I know Phil never meant

For me and baby to be sold! Why, I'se been his little woman Since I'se only twelve years old! He won me from the Captain,

Playing "seven-up" one night,

And he's told me more'n a thousand times He's sure to make it right.

"The Captain was my father,

Captain Winslow, of Bellair,

And you can't sell me and baby— you can't! You never dare! And those men, so used to suffering,

And callous as they were,
Looked in each other's faces
And paused to pity her.

But "many a case was just as bad,
And some perhaps were worse;
They could do nothing, anyhow,
The law must take its course."
The broken-hearted mother

Tried in vain to sleep that night,
Her busy brain would conjure up
Some possible means of flight.

Well she knew she was a prisoner,

That the house was thronged with men;

Knew, too, that for years this placé
Had been a noted gambler's den,
And a long, low vaulted chamber
Ran beneath the basement floor,
Opening far beyond detection,
In a heavy, hidden door.