Where were you in that hour of death?

How do you know what you relate?" His answer came in an underbreath"Master, I was the second mate!"

THE ETERNAL CITY.

BY JOAQUIN MILLER.

SOME levelled hills, a wall, a dome
'That lords its gilded arch and lies,
While at its base a beggar cries

For bread, and dies-and that is Rome.

Yet Rome is Rome; and Rome she must
And shall remain beside her gates.
And tribute take of kings and states,
Until the stars have fallen to dust.

Yea, Time on yon campagnian plain

Has pitched in siege his battle tents;
And round about her battlements
Has marched and trumpeted in vain.

These skies are Rome! The very loam
Lifts up and speaks in Roman pride;
And Time, outfaced and still defied,
Sits by and wags his beard at Rome.

WE PARTED IN SILENCE,

BY MRS. CRAWFORD.

WE parted in silence, we parted by night,
On the banks of that lonely river;
Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite
We met and we parted forever!

The night-bird sung, and the stars above
Told many a touching story,

Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love,
Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.

We parted in silence, our cheeks were wet,
With the tears that were past controlling;
We vowed we would never, no, never forget,

And those vows, at the time, were consoling;

But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine,

Are as cold as that lonely river;

And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,
Has shrouded its fires forever.

And now, on the midnight sky I look,
And my heart grows full of weeping;
Each star is to me a sealed book,

Some tale of that loved one keeping.
We parted in silence,—we parted in tears,
On the banks of that lonely river;

But the odor and bloom of those bygone years
Shall hang o'er its waters forever.

Much must be borne which it is hard to bear;

Much given away which it were sweet to keep. God help us all! who need, indeed, His care: And yet, I know the Shepherd loves His sheep.

My little boy begins to babble now,

Upon my knee, his earliest infant prayer; He has his father's eager eyes, I know;

And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair.

But when he sleeps, and smiles upon my knee,
And I can feel his light breath come and go,
I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!)

Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago;

Who might have been . . . . ah! what, I dare not think! We are all changed. God judges for us best.

God help us do our duty, and not shrink,

And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest.

But blame us women not, if some appear

Too cold at times; and some too gay and light. Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear Who knows the past? and who can judge us right?

Ah! were we judged by what we might have been,

And not by what we are-too apt to fall!

My little child-he sleeps and smiles between

These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all.

FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN.

BY SHAKESPEARE.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,

Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls'all must,

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great,
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe, and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this, and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning flask,

Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash ;

Thou hast finished joy and moan:
All lovers young, all lovers must,
Consign to thee, and come to dust.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP.

BY FLORENCE PERCY.

BACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for to-night!

Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years 1
I am so weary of toil and of tears.-
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,—
Take them, and give me my childhood again!

I have grown weary of dust and decay,-
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap ;-

Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed, and faded our faces between,
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep; --
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures,―
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,―rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother, -rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song:
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep ;-
Rock me to sleep, mother,-rock me to sleep!

MAUD MULLER.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup.

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge,

a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather,

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown,

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.