THE DAMSEL OF PERU.-W. C. BRYANT.

Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew,
There sat, beneath the pleasant shade, a damsel of Peru.
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
Came glimpses of her ivory neck, and of her glossy hair;
And sweetly rang her silvery voice, within that shady nook,
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden
brook.

'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung, When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.

Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,
And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his
bride,

And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright, dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north;

Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest sight would fail

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;

For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat,
And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat.
That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone;
But the music of that silvery voice is flowing sweetly on,—
Not, as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,-
A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,
Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,
And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave.

But see, along that mountain slope, a fiery horseman ride;
Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side!
His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rein,
There's blood upon his charger's flank, and foam upon his

mane;

He speeds toward that olive-grove, along that shaded hill: God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill!

And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek-but not of fear;
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak
The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak:
"I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive-grove with thee."

THE ORPHAN'S PRAYER.

Not many leagues from here, and e'en not many months ago, When all was bound in Winter's chains, and covered thick with snow,

As night came down upon the plain dark clouds hung o'er the earth,

And chilling winds swept o'er the scene in wild and cruel mirth,

A fair young child with weary feet from wandering to and fro, At last o'ercome with weariness sank down upon the snow. His tender form was thinly clad, though rough, bleak winds swept by,

And froze upon his cheek the tears that flowed so mournfully; They tossed the curls from off his brow, back from the eyes

of blue,

That glanced such looks of suffering from out their azure hue, Though none but God was near to mark the tears that from

them rolled,

While from his lips oft came the moan, "I am so very cold!" A drowsiness came o'er his frame and soon he ceased to weep, And on the chilling snow, he thought to lay him down to sleep;

But, true to holy teaching, first his evening hymn he said, And kneeling gently down, he clasped his stiffened hands and prayed

"My Heavenly Father," were the words that from his pale lips came,

And many dark and dismal nights his prayer had been the

same

"Please let me die, and take me to the gentle Shepherd's fold,

I want to go so very much, I am so very cold!

"When mother died and went to heaven to be an angel bright,

She said I might come pretty soon; please let me go to-night.
I want to feel her dear warm arms again around me fold;
O Father! let me go to her, I am so very cold.”

There was a time whene'er these same small hands were clasped in prayer,

At dusky hour of eventide, a mother's form was there;
And ere these curls were laid to rest upon their downy bed,
A father's hand in blessing lay upon that curly head.

There was a time when round this self-same childish form were thrown

The thousand comforts, dear delights, and guardian cares of home;

The budding happiness of life shone on his care-free brow, And love, and warmth, and light were there-where are those blessings now?

'Twas not the ocean's storm that sank the father 'neath its

wave,

Twas not a foul disease that laid the mother in her grave, Twas not the raging flame that swept the pleasant home away,

And turned the patient toil of years to ashes in a day.

'Twas the demon of the wine cup set the father's brain on fire, And plunged him, soul and body, into ruin dark and dire! While drop by drop the life-blood oozed from out the broken heart

Of her who vowed to cling to him till life itself should part.

And when the weary life was o'er, she laid her in the ground, And left her child in this cold world to wander up and down; And now alone, with freezing form beneath the wintry sky, He kneeled upon the cold white snow, and wildly prayed to die.

When morning with her streaming light came o'er the eastern hill,

And flashed her beams athwart the plain, she saw him kneeling still,

But, from those cold and parted lips came not one trembling

word;

The blue eyes raised to heaven were glazed; the orphan's prayer was heard.

MR. CAUDLE'S HAT.

A CAUDLE LECTURE REVERSED.

Now, Mrs. Caudle, I should like to know what has become of my hat? Here I've been hunting all over the house, and lost ten minutes that should have been given to the Mutual Life Insurance Co. Now, I say, what have you done with that hat? You haven't seen it? Of course not; never do see it. Frank, go and get my hat; and Jane, fetch me my cane. What's that! You can't find my hat? Now, Mrs. Caudle, I should like to know why you will persist in training your children in such a heedless manner? He can't find my hat! To be sure not; how can he, if you don't teach him how to look? Didn't I leave it in the kitchen when I went there last night after something to eat? How should you know? I say it's your business to know, and to have my things ready for me in the morning, and not have me losing so much time. Eh! you have too much else to do? Of course you have! with three servants and two children! Be calm? Oh, yes,

I will be calm! You see I am calm, and if you would only be so, I should have been able to find my hat long ago, instead of staying here to listen to your excuses, when I ought to be down town attending to business. I wonder how you expect I'm to keep this house going, if I'm to be kept waiting here for my hat. What! how can you help it? How can you help it! Why, madam, it's the easiest thing in the world! It's simply this modern management. Now, do you suppose things would go on in this way if you would only see that articles are in the right place? but, I suppose, you haven't got time to do that even! Of course not. Well, there is no use talking, I must go to the office bareheaded. Your bonnet, madam? Your bonnet! But why should I be surprised-why should I be surprised if you should offer me your skirts also, since I seem to have lost all authority in this house! It's not your fault? And pray, then, whose fault is it? I will repeat it over twenty times, if you wish itwhose fault is it? What! the servants'? No, ma'am, I tell you you are mistaken; it is not the servants'-it is your fault. I wonder who oversees the servants-who, madam, but you? Then, clearly, it's your fault that I can't find my

hat. [Sits down.] Well, it's no use talking, I sha'n't go to the office to-day, and you, ma'am, sha'n't go to Newportd'ye hear? It's no use asking; you sha'n't go. You needn't suppose I'm going to be deprived of my hat like this, and then allow you to spend my money at Newport. No, ma'am; I'm no such fool as all that comes to. No-no, ma'am ; here 1 am, and here I'll stay all day, ma'am, and--eh! What! You wish I wouldn't talk so much? I tell you I will talk—I'll talk all day, if I please, and smoke, too-d'ye hear that? I'll smoke in the dining-room, and-yes-I'll smoke in the parlor ; I'll scent the curtains, and smoke all over the house! Here (says Mrs. Caudle) the horrid wretch was about putting his odious precept into practice, when Jane came in with his hat, having found it in a corner of the large oak tree chair on the back stoop.

SHIPWRECKED.

FROM THE FRENCH OF FRANÇOIS COPPÉE.

Before the wine-shop which o'erlooks the beach
Sits Jean Goëllo, rough of mien and speech;
Our coast-guard now, whose arm was shot away
In the great fight in Navarino Bay;

Puffing his pipe, he slowly sips his grog,

And spins sea-yarns to many an old sea-dog
Sitting around him.

Yes, lads-hear him say— 'Tis sixty years ago this very day

Since I first went to sea; on board, you know,
Of La Belle Honorine,-lost long ago,—

An old three-masted tub, rotten almost,

Just fit to burn, bound for the Guinea coast.

We set all sail. The breeze was fair and stiff.

My boyhood had been passed 'neath yonder cliff,
Where an old man-my uncle, so he said-

Kept me at prawning for my daily bread.

At night he came home drunk. Such kicks and blows
Ah me! what children suffer no man knows!
But once at sea 'twas ten times worse, I found.
I learned to take, to bear, and make no sound.