It only remains to say that Mr. Higgin- For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar

of glory,

And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark

sea:

botham took the pedler into high favor, sanetioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress and settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the interest. In due time the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors by dying a Christian Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free! death in bed, since which melancholy event Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton and established a large tobacco-manufactory in my native village.

THOMAS MOORE.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

"And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."-ExODUS XV. 20.

WHERE ARE THE WICKED BURIED?

through

And studied the epitaphs, old and new,
But on monument, obelisk, pillar or stone

OUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's I read no evil that men have done.”

SOUN

dark sea:

Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free.
Sing, for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid
and brave;

The old sexton stood by a grave newly

made,

With his chin on his hand, his hand on a spade;

How vain was their boast! for the Lord hath I knew by the gleam of his eloquent eye.

but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in

the wave.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark

sea:

Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free.

That his soul was instructing his lips to reply;

66

Who is to judge when the soul takes its flight?

Who is to judge 'twixt the wrong and the right?

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Which of us mortals shall dare to say

Lord!

His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword.

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her

pride?

That our neighbor was wicked who died. to-day?

"In our journey through life the farther we speed,

The better we learn that humanity's need

Is charity's spirit, that prompts us to find Rather virtue than vice in the lives of our kind.

"Therefore good deeds we record on these
stones;

The evil men do let it die with their bones :
I have labored as sexton this many a year,
But I never have buried a bad man here."
THOMAS A. JAMES.

STORM AT TWILIGHT.

HE roar of a chafed lion in his lair
TH
Begirt by levelled spears. A sudden
flash,

Intense yet wavering, like a beast's fierce eye
Searching the darkness. The wild bay of
winds

Sweeps the burnt plains of heaven, and from

afar

Linked clouds are riding up like eager horse

men

Like a bold mariner. There is no bough
But lifteth its appealing arm to heaven.
The scudding grass is shivering as it flies,
And herbs and flowers crouch to their mother
Earth

Like frightened children. Tis more terri-
ble

When the hoarse thunder speaks, and the fleet wind

Stops like a steed that knows his rider's
voice,

For oh, the rush that follows is the calm
Of a despairing heart; and, as a maniac
Loses his grief in raving, the mad storm,
Weeping hot tears, awakens with a sob
From its blank desolation and shrieks on.

Javelin in hand. From the north wings of And, fluttering on a fitful breeze,
twilight
The autumn leaves came softly down.
There falls unwonted shadow, and strange As underneath a tree we stopped
An ornament of gold I dropped-

gloom
Cloisters the unwilling stars. The sky is Searched for in vain by wistful eyes,

roofed

With tempest, and the moon's scant rays fall

through

For there until this hour it lies

Beneath some curving fern.
Winter will bury it with leaves;

Like light let dimly through the fissured And if some future spring upheaves

rock

Vaulting a cavern. To the horizon

The green sea of the forest hath rolled back
Its levelled billows, and where mastlike trees
Sway to its bosom here and there a vine,
Braced to some pine's bare shaft, clings,
rocked aloft

A golden blossom on the sprout
A fallen acorn then puts out,
My little gem, obscured so long,
May wake a wandering poet's song,
Who, heedless of his steps, may pass,
And there, amidst the tangled grass,
Its shining may discern.

Accompanied, with damps and dreadful And wandering vanity, when least was safe,

gloom,

Which to his evil conscience represented

All things with double terror. On the ground

Rejected my forewarning, and disdained
Not to be trusted, longing to be seen,
Though by the devil himself, him everween-
ing

Outstretched he lay-on the cold ground- To overreach, but, with the serpent meeting,

and oft

Cursed his creation, death as oft accused
Of tardy execution, since denounced
The day of his offence.

death,"

Fooled and beguiled, by him thou, I by thee,
To trust thee from my side, imagined wise,
Constant, mature, proof against all assaults,
Why comes not And understood that all was but a show
Rather than solid virtue, all but a rib
Crooked by nature, bent, as now appears,
More to the part sinister, from me drawn,
Well if thrown out as supernumerary
To my just number found. Oh, why did
God,

Said he, "with one thrice-acceptable stroke
To end me? Shall truth fail to keep her
word,

Justice divine not hasten to be just?
But death comes not at all, justice divine
Mends not her slowest pace for prayers or
cries.

Creator wise, that peopled highest heaven | With spirits masculine, create at last