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 gasp was childish weak,

His eyes put on a dying look,

to speak;

- he sighed, and ceased

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had

The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down

On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strown!

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. S. NORTON.1

1 CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON, granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born in 1808, and married in 1827 to the Hon. George Chapple Norton, from whom she was separated in 1836. Late in life she made a second marriage with Sir William Stirling Maxwell. She died in 1878. She was a woman of great beauty, very accomplished, and possessed brillian talents. She wrote much both in prose and in verse.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS.

SOMEWHAT back from the village street
Stands the old-fashioned country-seat.
Across its antique portico

Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw;
And from its station in the hall

An ancient time-piece says to all,
"Forever never!

Never-forever!"

Half-way up the stairs it stands,
And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!
With sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever never!

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say, at each chamber-door, -
"Forever-never!

Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Through days of death and days of birth,
Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood,

And as if, like God, it all things saw,

It calmly repeats those words of awe,

66

• Forever

never!

In that mansion used to be
Free-hearted Hospitality;

His

great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;
But, like the skeleton at the feast,
That warning timepiece never ceased,

There groups of merry children played; There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime,

And affluence of love and time!

Even as a miser counts his gold,

Those hours the ancient timepiece told,

-

From that chamber, clothed in white,
The bride came forth on her wedding-night;
There, in that silent room below,

The dead lay in his shroud of snow;

And in the hush that followed the prayer,
Was heard the old clock on the stair,
"Forever- never!

All are scattered now, and fled;
Some are married, some are dead;
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,

"Ah! when shall they all meet again?"
As in the days long since gone by,
The ancient timepiece makes reply, -
"Forever never!

Never forever!"

Never here, forever there,

Where all parting, pain, and care,
And death, and time shall disappear, --
Forever there, but never here!

The horologe of Eternity

Sayeth this incessantly,

"Forever- never!

Never-forever!"

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY."

A LOGICAL STORY.

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way

It ran a hundred years to a day,

And then, of a sudden, it- ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits,
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive,
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.

That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,
Above or below, or within or without,
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,

That a chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou ")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it couldn' break daown:
Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain,

Is only jest

T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,