Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue, cold, gleaming

steel,

And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel.
A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head;
I could not stir, I could not cry,-I felt benumbed and dead;
Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er;
I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

Again I looked: a fearful change across his face had passed,— He seemed to rave,-on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade; then first I found a tongue,

"Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung;

He heard me but he heeded not; one glance around he gave; And ere I could arrest his hand, he had—begun to shave!

SEARCHING FOR THE SLAIN.

Hold the lantern aside, and shudder not so;
There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow;
There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,
And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair.
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night
To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight?

You're his wife; you love him-you think so; and I
Am only his mother; my boy shall not lie
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share.
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.

You will go! then no faintings! Give me the light,
And follow my footsteps,-my heart will lead right.
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of the slain,
All mangled and gory!-what horrible pain
These beings have died in! Dear mothers, ye weep,
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep!

More! more! Ah! I thought I could nevermore know
Grief, horror, or pity, for aught here below,

Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell.

Did they think I cared then to see officers stand
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand?

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright,
That your red hands turn over toward this dim light
These dead men that stare so? Ah, if you had kept
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left
You had heard that his place was worst of them alĺ,–
Not 'mid the stragglers,-where he fought he would fall.

There's the moon through the clouds: O Christ what a scene!
Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean,
And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine?
Hark, a groan! there another, --here in this line
Piled close on each other! Ah, here is the flag,

Torn, dripping with gore;-bah! they died for this rag.
Here's the voice that we seek: poor soul, do not start;
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart!
Is there aught we can do? A message to give

To any beloved one? I swear, if I live,

To take it for sake of the words my boy said,

"Home," "mother," "wife," ere he reeled down 'mong the dead.

But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood?

Speak, speak, man, or point; 'twas the Ninth. Oh, the blood Is choking his voice! What a look of despair!

There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair

From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own,

My hands were both idle when you died alone.

He's dying-he's dead!
God's peace on his soul!
Where our own dear one

Close his lids, let us go.
If we only could know
lies!-my soul has turned sick;

Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick?

I cannot! I cannot! How eager you are!

One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War.

He's not here, and not here. What wild hopes flash through My thoughts, as foot-deep I stand in this dread dew,

And cast up a prayer to the blue quiet sky!

Was it you, girl, that shrieked? Ah! what face doth lie
Upturned toward me there, so rigid and white?

O God, my brain reels! 'Tis a dream. My old sight

Is dimmed with these horrors. My son! oh, my son!
Would I had died for thee, my own, only one!
There, lift off your arms; let him come to the breast
Where first he was lulled, with my soul's hymn, to rest.
Your heart never thrilled to your lover's fond kiss

As mine to his baby-touch; was it for this?

He was yours, too; he loved you? Yes, yes, you're right.
Forgive me, my daughter, I'm maddened to night.
Don't moan so, dear child; you're young, and your years
May still hold fair hopes; but the old die of tears.
Yes, take him again;-ah! don't lay your face there;
See, the blood from his wound has stained your loose hair.

How quiet you are! Has she fainted?-her cheek
Is cold as his own. Say a word to me,--speak!

Am I crazed? Is she dead? Has her heart broke first?
Her trouble was bitter, but sure mine is worst.
I'm afraid, I'm afraid, all alone with these dead;
Those corpses are stirring; God help my poor head!

I'll sit by my children until the men come
To bury the others, and then we'll go home.

Why, the slain are all dancing! Dearest, don't move.
Keep away from my boy; he's guarded by love.
Lullaby, lullaby; sleep, sweet darling, sleep!
God and thy mother will watch o'er thee keep.

THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

O'er a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray,
Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay,—
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent
By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are o’er; That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that 1 Their own liege lord and master born, that I,-ha! ha!—must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Paynim

spear;

Think ye he's entered at my gate,-has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorned him, when the fight was raging hot;

I'll try his might, I'll brave his power; defy, and fear him not

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, and fire the culverin,
Bid each retainer arm with speed; call every vassal in;
Up with my banner on the wall; the banquet board prepare;
Throw wide the portal of my hall, and bring my armor there!"

An hundred hands were busy then: the banquet forth was

spread,

And rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread; While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured,

On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board;

While at its head, within his dark, carved oaken chair of state, Armed cap-a-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men; pour forth the cheering wine; There's life and strength in every drop;-thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true? mine eyes are waxing dim; Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim.

"Ye're there, but yet I see you not; draw forth each trusty sword,

And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board;

I hear it faintly;-louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath? Up, all! and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!'"'

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafening

cry,

That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on

high.

"Ho! cravens! do ye fear him?

flown?

Slaves! traitors! have ye

Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him; let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way

up;

And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his

head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat,— dead!

Albert G. Greene.

DEATH OF LITTLE JO.-From "Bleak House."

Jo is very glad to see his old friend; and says, when they are left alone, that he takes it uncommon kind as Mr. Sangsby should come so far out of his way on ac

counts of sich as him. Mr. Snagsby, touched by the spectacle before him, immediately lays upon the table half-a-crown; that magic balsam of his for all kinds of wounds.

"And how do you find yourself, my poor lad?” inquires the stationer, with his cough of sympathy.

"I'm in luck, Mr. Sangsby, I am," returns Jo, “and don't want for nothink. I'm more cumfbler nor you can't think, Mr. Sangsby. I'm wery sorry that I done it, but I didn't go fur to do it, sir."

The stationer softly lays down another half-crown, and asks him what it is that he is sorry for having done.

"Mr. Sangsby," says Jo, "I went and giv a illness to the lady as wos and yet as war'nt the t'other lady, and none of em never says nothink to me for having done it, on accounts of their being so good and my having been s' unfortnet. The lady come herself and see me yes'day, and she ses, 'Ah Jo!' she ses. 'We thought we'd lost you, Jo!' she ses. And she sits down a smilin so quiet, and don't pass a word nor yit a look upon me for having done it, she don't, and I turns agin the wall, I doos, Mr. Sangsby. And Mr. Jarnders, I see him a forced to turn away his own self. And Mr. Woodcot, he come fur to give me somethink fur to ease me, wot he's allus a doin on day and night, and wen he come a bendin over me and a speakin up so bold, I see his tears a fallin, Mr Sangsby."

The softened stationer deposits another half-crown on the table. Nothing less than a repetition of that infalli ble remedy will relieve his feelings.

แ

"Wot I wos thinkin on, Mr. Sangsby," proceeds Jo, wos, as you wos able to write wery large, p'raps?" Yes, Jo, please God," returns the stationer.

"Uncommon precious large, p'raps?" says Jo, with

eagerness.

"Yes, my poor boy."

Jo laughs with pleasure. "Wot I wos thinkin on then, Mr. Sangsby, wos, that wen I wos moved on as fur as ever I could go, and couldn't be moved no furder, whe ther you might be so good, p'raps, as to write out, wery large, so that anyone could see it anywheres, as that 1 wos wery truly hearty sorry that I done it, and that I