And how the Sprites of injured men shriek upward from the sod,-
Ay! how the Ghostly Hand will point to show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts are seen in dreams, from God!
He told how murderers walk the earth beneath the curse of Cain,—
With crimson clouds before their eyes, and flames about their brain :
For blood has left upon their souls its everlasting stain!

"And well," quoth he, "I know, for truth, their pangs must be extreme,-
Woe! woe! unutterable woe-who spill life's sacred stream!
For why? Methought, last night, I wrought a murder in a dream!
One that had never done me wrong-a feeble man, and old;

I led him to a lonely field,-the moon shone clear and cold:
'Now here,' said I, this man shall die, and I will have his gold!'
Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,-and one with a heavy stone,—
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, and then the deed was done!
There was nothing lying at my feet but lifeless flesh and bone!
Nothing but lifeless flesh and bɔne, that could not do me ill;
And yet I feared him all the more, for lying there so still:
There was a manhood in his look, that murder could not kill!
And lo, the universal air seemed lit with ghastly flame;-
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes were looking down in blame:
I took the dead man by the hand, and called upon his name!

O me! it made me quake to see such sense within the slain;
But when I touched the lifeless clay, the blood gushed out amain!—
For every clot, a burning spot was scorching in my brain!

And now, from forth the frowning sky, from theHeaven's topmost height,
I heard a Voice-the awful voice of the blood-avenging Sprite:-
'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead, and hide it from my sight!'

I took the dreary body up, and cast it in a stream,

A sluggish water, black as ink, the depth was so extreme:

My gentle Boy, remember this is nothing but a dream!

Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, and vanished in the pool; Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, and washed my forehead cool; And sat among the urchins young, that evening, in the school.

O Heaven! to think of their white souls, and mine so black and grim!
I could not share in childish Prayer, nor join in the Evening Hymn:
Like a Devil of the Pit I seemed, 'mid holy Cherubim!

And Peace went with them, one and all, and each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain that lighted me to bed;
And drew my midnight curtains round, with fingers bloody red!

All night I lay in agony, in anguish dark and deep!

My fevered eyes I dared not close, but stared aghast at Sleep:
For Sin had rendered unto her the keys of Hell to keep!

All night I lay in agony, from weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint, that racked me all the time,-
A mighty yearning, like the first fierce impulse unto crime!

One stern, tyrannic thought, that made all other thoughts its slave;
Stronger and stronger every pulse did that temptation crave,—
Still urging me to go and see the Dead Man in his grave!

Heavily I rose up, as soon as light was in the sky,

And sought the black, accursed pool with a wild, misgiving eye;—
And I saw the Dead in the river bed, for the faithless stream was dry!
Merrily rose the lark, and shook the dew-drops from its wing;
But I never marked its morning flight, I never heard it sing:
For I was stooping once again under the horrid thing!

With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran,-
There was no time to dig a grave before the day began:

In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves I hid the murdered man!
And all that day I read in school, but my thoughts were other-where;
As soon as the mid-day task was done, in secret I was there-
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, and still the corse was bare!
Then down I cast me on my face, and first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one that Earth refused to keep,
Or Land, or Sea—though he should be ten thousand fathoms deep!
So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, till blood for blood atones!
Ay! though he's buried in a cave, and trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh-the world shall see his bones!
O God! that horrid, horrid dream besets me now awake!
Again, again, with dizzy brain, the human life I take;
And my red, right hand grows raging hot, like Cranmer's at the stake.
And still no peace for the restless clay will wave or mould allow;
The Horrid Thing pursues my soul—it stands before me now!"...
The fearful Boy looked up, and saw huge drops upon his brow!
That very night, while gentle Sleep the urchin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between, with gyves upon his wrist!

V. THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD -Dr. J. K. Ingram. WHO fears to speak of 'Ninety-eight? Who blushes at the name? When cowards mock the patriot's fate, who hangs his head for shame? He's all a knave, or half a slave, who slights his country thus; But a true man-like you, man,-will fill your glass with us. We drink-"The Memory of the Brave!" the faithful and the few: Some lie far off beyond the wave, some sleep in Ireland too. All-all are gone! but still lives on the fame of those who died; All true men,-like you, men,-remember them with pride. Some on the shores of distant lands their weary hearts have laid; And by the stranger's heedless hands their lonely graves were made: But, though their clay be far away beyond the Atlantic foam, In true men--like you, men,-their spirit's still at home!

The dust of some is Irish earth; among their own they rest:

And the same land that gave them birth, has caught them to her breast:
And we will pray that, from their clay, full many a race may start
Of true men-like you, men,- to act as brave a part.

They rose in dark and evil days to right their native land;
They kindled here a living blaze that nothing shall withstand:

Alas! that Might can vanquish Right! they fell and passed away;
But true men-like you, men,—are plenty here to-day.

Then, here's "Their Memory !"-may it be for us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty, and teach us to unite.

Through good and ill, be Ireland's still, though sad as theirs your fate; And true men be you, men,-like those of 'Ninety-eight!

VI. THE CHILDREN'S HOUR.-Longfellow.

BETWEEN the dark and the daylight, when the night is beginning to lour,

Comes a pause in the day's occupation, that is known as the children's

hour.

I hear in the chamber above me, the patter of little feet,

The sound of a door that is opened, and voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight, descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, and Edith with golden hair.
A whisper-and then a silence:-yet I know, by their merry eyes,
They are plotting and planning together, to take me by surprise!
A sudden rush from the stairway—a sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded, they enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret, o'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me; they seem to be everywhere!
They almost devour me with kisses! their arms about me entwine;
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, in his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am is not a match for you all?

I have you fast in my fortress, and will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon, in the round-tower-of my heart!
And there I will keep you for ever-yes, for ever and a day-
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, and moulder in dust away!

VII.—THE VAGABONDS.-J. T. Trowbridge.

We are two travellers, Roger and I. Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentleman, mind your eye! Over the table,-look out for the lamp!--The rogue is growing a little old; five years we've tramped through wind and weather, and slept out-doors when nights were cold, and ate and drank-and starved-together!

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you! a bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, a fire to thaw our thumbs-(poor fellow! the paw he holds up there's been frozen); plenty of catgut for my fiddle (this out-door business is bad for strings); then a few nice buck-wheats hot from the griddle, and Roger and I set up for kings.

No, thank ye, sir,-I never drink; Roger and I are exceedingly moral; -aren't we, Roger ?-See him wink! Well, something hot, then,-we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too,-see him nod his head! What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk! He understands every word that's said, -and he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, 1 wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog:

But he sticks by, through thick and thin; and this old coat, with its empty pockets, and rags that smell of tobacco and gin, he'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living would do it, and prove, through every disaster, so fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, to such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir!-see him wag his tail and grin! By George! it makes my old eyes water! that is, there's something in this gin that chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing; and Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) shall march a little. Start, you villain! Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle! (Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your cap while the gentlemen give a trifle, to aid a poor, old, patriot soldier! March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes, when he stands up to hear his sentence. Now tell us how many drams it takes to honour a jolly new acquaintance. Five yelps,—that's five; he's mighty knowing! The night's before us, fill the glasses!-Quick, sir! . . . I'm ill,— my brain is going!—some brandy,—thank you,—there!—it passes!

66

Why not reform ?" That's easily said; but I've gone through such wretched treatment, sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, and scarce remembering what meat meant, that now, alas! I'm past reform; and there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm-to prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, a dear girl's love,-but I took to drink:-the same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features, you needn't laugh, sir; they were not then such a burning libel on God's creatures: I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen HER, so fair and young, whose head was happy on this breast! If you could have heard the songs I sung when the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed that ever I, sir, should be stray. ing from door to door, with fiddle and dog, ragged and penniless,—and playing to you to-night for a glass of grog!...

She's married since,-a parson's wife: 'twas better for her that we should part,-better the soberest, prosiest life than a blasted home and a broken heart. I have seen her? Once: I was weak, and spent, on a dusty road a carriage stopped: but little she dreamed, as on she went, who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry!it makes me wild to think of the change! What do you care for a beggar's story? Is it amusing? you find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me! 'Twas well she died, before- -do you know if the happy spirits in heaven can see the

ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong! to deaden this pain; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpisk, leaden, aching thing in place of a heart? He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could; no doubt, remembering things that were-a virtuous kennel with plenty of food, and himself a sober, respectable cur....

I'm better now; that glass was warming.-You rascal! limber your lazy feet! we must be fiddling and performing for supper and bed, or starve in the street.-Not a very gay life to lead, you think? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, and the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;-the sooner, the better-for Roger-and me!

ONE DAY SOLITARY."-J. T. Trowbridge.

"I AM all right! Good bye, old chap! Twenty-four hours - that won't be long: Nothing to do-but take a nap; and -'say! can a fellow sing a song? Will the "light fantastic" be in order? A pigeon-wing on your pantry floor? What are the rules for 66 a regular boarder?""Be quiet?". "All right! Cling clang goes the

door.

Clang clink the bolts-and I am lock'd in! Some pious reflection and repentance come next, I suppose; for I just begin to perceive the sting in the tail of my sentence-"One day whereof shall be solitary." .....Here I am, at the end of my journey, and-well, it ain't jollynot so very!-I'd like to throttle that sharp attorney!

He took my money; the very last dollar !-didn't leave me so much as a dime-not enough to buy me a paper collar to wear at my trial; he knew, all the time, 'twas some that I got for the stolen silver! Why hasn't he been indicted, too? If he doesn't exactly rob and pilfer, he lives by the plunder of them that do.

over

Then, didn't he put me into a fury to see him step up, and laugh and chat with the county attorney, and joke with the jury when all was -then go back for his hat; while Sue was sobbing to break her heart! and all I could do was to stand and stare! He had pleaded my cause, he had play'd his part and got his fee—and what more did he care?

It's droll to think how, just out yonder, the world goes jogging-on the same; old men will save, and boys will squander, and fellows will play at the same old game of get-and-spend-to-morrow, next year— and drink and carouse; and who will there be to remember a comrade buried here?—I am, to them—they are, nothing, to me!

And Sue-yes, she will forget me, too, I know; already her tears are drying; I believe there is nothing that girl can do so easy, as laughing, and lying, and crying! She clung to me well while there was hope, then broke her heart in that last wild sob; but she ain't the woman to sit and mope, while I am at work on "a five-years' job!"

They'll set me to learning a trade, no doubt, and I must forget to speak or smile; I shall go marching in and out, one of a silent tramping file of felons-at morning, and noon, and night;-just down to the shops, and back to the cells; and work with a thief at left and right,— and feed, and sleep, and-nothing else!

Was I born for this? Will the old folks know? I can see them now, on the old home-place! His gait is feeble, his step is slow, there's a settled grief in his furrow'd face; while she goes wearily groping about, in a sort of dream-so bent, so sad!-but this won't do!-I must sing, and shout, and forget myself, or else go mad!

I won't be foolish !—although, for a minute, I was home in my little room once more. What wouldn't I give just now to be in it? The bed is yonder, and there is the door; the Bible is here on the neat white stand-the summer fruits are ripening now; in the flickering light, I reach my hand from the window, and pluck them from the bough.

When I was a child (oh, well for me and them if I had never been older!)-when he told me stories on his knee, and toss'd me, and car