For her brother was a soldier too and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine)

For the honor of old Bingen, — dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another, not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, —
O friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest
mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison)
I dreamed I stood beside her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, -fair Bingen on the Rhine.
"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard or seemed to

hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered

walk!

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen, -loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was
childish weak,
His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,

fair Bingen on the Rhine. CAROLINE E. NORTON.

ARTEMUS WARD VISITS THE SHAKERS.

"Mr. Shaker," sed I, "

you see before you a Babe in the Woods, so to speak, and he axes a shelter of you."

"Yay," sed the Shaker, and he led the way into the house, another bein sent to put my horse and wagon under kiver.

A solum female, lookin somewhat like a last year's beanpole stuck into a long meal-bag, cum in and axed me was I athirst and did I hunger? To which I asserted, “A few.” She went orf, and I endeavored to open a conversation with the old man.

"Elder, I spect?" sed I.

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Yay," he said.

"Health's good, I reckon?" "Yay."

"What's the wages of a Elder, when he understands his bizness or do you devote your sarvices gratooitous ?''

"If the storm continues there'll be a mess underfoot, hay?" "Yay."

"If I may be so bold, kind sir, what's the price of that pecooler kind of wesket you wear, includin trimmins?"

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Yay."

I pawsed a minit, and then, thinkin I'd be faseshus with him and see how that would go, I slapt him on the shoulder, burst into a hearty larf, and told him that as a yayer he had no living ekel.

He jumped up as if bilin water had been squirted into his ears, groaned, rolled his eyes up tords the sealin and sed: "You're a man of sin !

He then walked out of the room.

Directly thar cum in two young Shakeresses, as putty and suck lookin gals as I ever met. It is troo they was drest in meal-bags like the old one I'd met previsly, and their shiny, silky hair was hid from sight by long, white caps, such as I spose female gosts wear; but their eyes sparkled like diamonds, their cheeks was like roses, and they was charmin enuff to make a man throw stuns at his grandmother, if they axed him to. They commenst clearing away the dishes, casting sly glances at me all the time, I got excited. I forgot Betsey Jane in my rapter, and sez I,

"My pretty dears, how air you?"
"We air well," they solumly sed.

"Where is the old man ?" said I, in a soft voice.
"Of whom dost thou speak - Brother Uriah?"

"I mean that gay and festive cuss who calls me a man of sin. Shouldn't wonder if his name wasn't Uriah.” "He has retired."

"Wall, my pretty dears," sez I, "let's have some fun. Let's play puss in the corner. What say?"

"Air you a Shaker, sir?" they asked.

"Wall, my pretty dears, I haven't arrayed my proud form in a long weskit yet, but if they wus all like you perhaps I'd jine 'em. As it is, I am willing to be Shaker protemporary."

They was full of fun. I seed that at fust, only they was a little skeery. I tawt 'em puss in the corner, and sich like plase, and we had a nice time, keepin quiet of course, so that the old man shouldn't hear. When we broke up, sez I:

"My pretty dears, ear I go, you have no objections, have you, to a innersent kiss at partin?"

"Yay," they said, and I-yayed.

C. F. BROWN.

NELL.

You're a kind woman, Nan! ay, kind and true!
God will be good to faithful folk like you!

You knew my Ned?

A better, kinder lad never drew breath.

We loved each other true, and we were wed

In church, like some who took him to his death;
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost

His senses when he took a drop too much.

Drink did it all drink made him mad when cross'd
He was a poor man, and they're hard on such.
O Nan! that night! that night!
When I was sitting in this very chair,
Watching and waiting in the candlelight,
And heard his foot come creaking up the stair,
And turned, and saw him standing yonder, white
And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair!

And when I caught his arm and call'd, in fright,
He push'd me, swore, and to the door he pass'd
To lock and bar it fast.

Then down he drops just like a lump of lead,

Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter,

And Nan! - just then the light seem'd growing brighter,
And I could see the hands that held his head,

All red! all bloody red!

What could I do but scream? He groan'd to hear,
Jump'd to his feet, and gripp'd me by the wrist;
"Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell!" he hiss'd.

And I was still, for fear.

They're after me I've knifed a man!" he said, "Be still! the drink- drink did it! - he is dead!"

Then we grew still, dead still. I couldn't weep;
All I could do was just to cling to Ned and hark,
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep,

But breathing hard and deep.

The candle flicker'd out

the room grew dark

And — Nan ! —although my heart was true and tried —
When all grew cold and dim,

I shudder'd not for fear of them outside,

But just afraid to be alone with him.
"Ned! Ned!" I whisper'd-
But did not heed or look!
"Ned! Ned! speak, lad! tell me it is not true!
At that he raised his head and looked so wild;
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw
His arms around me, crying like a child,
And held me close-and not a word was spoken,
While I clung tighter to his heart and press'd him,
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken,

and he moan'd and shook,

But kiss'd his poor stain'd hands, and cried, and bless'd him!

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold

With sound o' falling rain

When I could see his face, and it look'd old,
Like the pinch'd face of one that dies in pain;
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun,
We never thought to hide away or run,
Until we heard those voices in the street,
That hurrying of feet,

And Ned leap'd up, and knew that they had come. "Run, Ned!" I cried, but he was deaf and dumb!

"Hide, Ned!" I scream'd, and held him; "hide thee, man!"

He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearken'd, Nan!

And all the rest is like a dream the sound

Of knocking at the door

A rush of men a struggle on the ground
A mist a tramp― a roar;

For when I got my senses back again,

The room was empty- and my head went round!

God help him! God will help him! Ay, no fear!
It was the drink, not Ned he meant nɔ wrong;
So kind! so good!— and I am useless here,
Now he is lost that loved me true and long.
That night before he died,

I didn't cry

my heart was hard and dried ;
But when the clocks went "one," I took my shawl
To cover up my face, and stole away,

And walk'd along the silent streets, where all
Look'd cold and still and gray,

And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square,
But just as
three" was sounded close at hand

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I started and turn'd east, before I knew,

Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the Strand,
And through the toll-gate on to Waterloo.

Some men and lads went by,

And turning round, I gazed, and watch'd 'em go
Then felt that they were going to see him die,
And drew my shawl more tight, and follow'd slow.
More people pass'd me, a country cart with hay
Stopp'd close beside me, and two or three
Talk'd about it! I moan'd and crept away!

Next came a hollow sound I knew full well,

For something gripp'd me round the heart!— and then
There came the solemn tolling of a bell!

O God! O God! how could I sit close by,

And neither scream nor cry?

As if I had been stone, all hard and cold,

I listen'd, listen'd, listen'd, still and dumb,

While the folk murmur'd, and the death-bell toll'd