"Some'impulse moved me to kneel down and touch him where he fell; I turned him o'er-I saw his face-the sight was worse than hell! There lay my brother-curse me not! pierced by my bayonet!"

O Christ! the pathos of that cry I never shall forget--
Men turned away to hide their tears, for every eye was wet.

And the hard-featured woman-nurse, a sturdy wench was she,
Dropped down among us in a swoon, from very sympathy,

--"I saw his face, the same dear face which once (would we had died In those days of innocence!) was ever by my side,

At board or bed, at book or game, so fresh and merry-eyed.

"And now to see it white and set--to know the deed was mine!

A nadness seized me as I knelt, accursed in God's sunshine.

I did not heed the balls which fell around as thick as rain,

I did not know my arm was gone; I felt nor wound nor pain:

I only stooped and kissed those lips which ne'er would speak again.

“Oh, Louis!” (and the lad looked up and brushed a tear aside)

Oh, Louis, brother of my soul! my boyhood's fearless guide! By the bright heaven where thou stand'st by thy big-hearted faith— By these the tears our mother sheds-by this my failing breathForgive me for that murderous thrust that wounded thee to death.

'Forgive me! I would yield my life, to give thee thine, my brother!
What's this?-Don't shut the sunlight out; I can not see my mother!
The air blows sweet from yonder field! Dear Lou, put up your sword.
Let's weave a little daisy-chain upon this pleasant sward—”
And with a smile upon his mouth, the boy slept in the Lord.

ELEANOR C. DONNELLY.

THE BATTLE OF GETTYSBURG,

The little village of Gettysburg, sleeping in a valley, and stretching its arms up the slope of a hill, lies in the center of Adams County, Pennsylvania. It tolerates a languishing college, holds a few churches, and supports some schools. The village might have slept in self-satisfied obscurity till the millennium, but for one event

which centered suddenly upon it the eyes of the world, and gave it a place immortal in history.

The sun came up in fervid splendor on the morning of July 3, 1863. It rose upon a day that was to decide the destiny of America. In that quiet village of Gettysburg, in the State where freedom was born, liberty grappled with treason for existence.

The first and second days of the battle closed on unrecompensed reverses to the Union army. The hot forenoon of the third day wore away before the decisive work began. At one o'clock the Confederate batteries opened fire. Our cannon made no answer to theirs; but their range was too accurate, their aim too deadly, and the contest was unequal. For two hours they plowed Cemetery Ridge with shot and shell. But this was not the battle. Suddenly the firing ceased; and forth from the Rebel works came the army of Robert E. Lee. The fatal hour has come. All the flags are flying, all the rifles gleaming, all the drums are beating. Alive, active, alert, the hopeful host sweeps proudly onward. It is the flower of Virginia that leads the impetuous attack. Against the center of our line that attack is directed. As the storming party advances they gather for a supreme effort. In sullen silence we await them Not a rifle cracks from the shallow pits. The men are watching and waiting and obeying orders. At intervals the cannon spit fire; but the voices of their vibrant lips are notes of warning rather than of anger. Now the van of the enemy raises a sharp, shrill yell, breaks into a double-quick, and dashes upon our frail defenses. Our outposts are driven in; our skirmishers put to flight; the Emmettsburg road is reached; the approaches to the ridge are gained; the Confederate colors wave in triumph over the American flag. Suddenly from the Union side twice twelve thousand muskets crack viciously; twice twelve thousand bullets whistle angrily. A great cloud of smoke goes up. A great sheet of flame flashes, and, lo! the line of the enemy has literally melted away.

But now, over the corpses of their comrades, maddened as beasts are maddened by blood, the second line of the Confederate army rushes wildly, and absolutely lifts the Union troops from their defenses and sweeps them back like leaves. Again the battle-flags of the South are triumphant. The Rebels are victorious. The last line of our defenses is reached and taken; they are upon our guns, bayo neting the gunners and capturing the pieces.

But see! to the right and to the left there is a light flashing like

the forked lightning of heaven. There is a roar as of thunder, and the bolts of death are descending. These impetuous Southerners have dashed into the gates of hell; they have exposed themselves to a cross-fire of grape and canister, and are lost. They are not cowards. They have faced death full often, but they stand dismayed now. No courage can save them; no daring redeem them. Here is Death linked to Despair. The guns which are thinning their ranks are beyond their reach; their flags fall; their comrades die; their hopes sink; their cause is lost. Shattered and broken and defeated, they retire in disorder and confusion, and a great victorious shout goes up from the Union arny as it chases its conquered enemies into the darkness of descending night.

R. C. BRIGGS.

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door.
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel of a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,

With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,

And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold,
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,

For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed,

Heaven sends misfortunes,-why should we repine?
'Tis heaven has brought me to the state you see:
And your condition may be soon like mine,

The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter-once the comfort of my age-
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Js cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife-sweet soother of my care-
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim of despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me!

Then pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

THOMAS MOSS

WEDDED LOVE'S FIRST HOME.

[This simple and beautiful piece, if rightly rendered, should express the acme of happiness in every tone. Where reference is made to the absent dear ones, the reciter should avoid a mournful tone, so sweet are the hal.owed recollections.]

'T was far beyond yon mountains, dear, we plighted vows of love, The ocean-wave was at our feet, the autumn sky above; The pebbly shore was covered o'er with many a varied shell,