And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's

sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen,- calm Bingen on the Rhine.

4. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping

head,

When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen,-dear Bingen on the Rhine.

5. "There's another, not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her

eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,— O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life-(for, ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

6. I saw the blue Rhine sweep along: I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
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."

7. His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse; his grasp was childish weak,

His eyes put on a dying look,— he sighed and ceased to speak.
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-
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 corpses strewn;
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to
shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.

DEFINITIONS.

1. Legion (pro. lē'jun), division of an army. Dearth (pro. derth), scarcity. Ebbed, flowed out. 2. Côrse, a dead body. 4. Stead'fast, firm, resolute. 5. Co-quět'ry, trifling in love. 6. Cho'rus, music in which all join. Yore, old times.

NOTE.-1. Bingen is pronounced Bing'en, not Binʼgen, nor Bin'jen.

LXXXVII. THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.

Charles Sprague (b. 1791, d. 1875) was born in Boston, Massachusetts. He engaged in mercantile business when quite young, leaving school for that purpose. In 1825, he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank of Boston, which position he held until 1864. Mr. Sprague has not been a prolific writer; but his poems, though few in number, are deservedly classed among the best productions of American poets. His chief poem is entitled "Curiosity."

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?
Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 't is given

To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;

Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'T were Heaven indeed,

Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On Nature's charms to feed,

And Nature's own great God adore.

3.

DEFINITIONS.-2. Perch, to light or settle on any thing. Pěn ́ançe, suffering for sin. 4. Lays, songs. 5. Choir (pro. kwīr), a collection of singers. Dōme, an arched structure above a roof; hence, figuratively, the heavens. 6. Con'se-crat-ed, set apart for the service of God. 8. Track'less, having no path.

NOTE. This little poem was addressed to two swallows, that flew into church during service.

LXXXVIII. THE PEEVISH WIFE.

Maria Edgeworth (b. 1767, d. 1849) was born near Reading, Berkshire, England. In 1782 her father removed with his family to Edgeworthtown, Ireland, to reside on his estate. She lived here during the remainder of her life, with the exception of occasional short visits to England, Scotland, and France. She was educated principally by her father, and they were co-laborers in literary productions, among which were "Essays on Practical Education," and the "Parent's Assistant." Her novels and tales were written without assistance, and her fame as a writer rests on them. The best known of these are "Castle Rackrent," "Moral Tales," "Tales of Fashionable Life," "Frank," "The Modern Griselda," and "Helen." Miss Edgeworth excels in the truthful delineation of character, and her works are full of practical good sense and genuine humor.

Mrs. Bolingbroke. I WISH I knew what was the matter with me this morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear?

Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear; I have finished it.

Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it. I hate stale news. Is there any thing in the paper? for I can not be at the trouble of hunting it.

Mr. B. Yes, my dear; there are the marriages of two of our friends.

Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin John Nettleby.

(5.-18.)

Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby? Dear! But why did you tell me?

Mr. B. Because you asked me, my dear.

Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph one's self. One loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told. Well, whose was the other marriage?

Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you; I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise.

Mrs. B. But you see I can not find it. How provoking you are, my dear! Do pray tell me.

Mr. B. Our friend Mr. Granby.

Mrs. B. Mr. Granby? Dear! Why did you not make me guess? I should have guessed him directly. But why do you call him our friend? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you remember, the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no

friend of mine.

Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear; but I hope you will go and see Mrs. Granby.

Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she?

Mr. B. Miss Cooke.

Mrs. B. Cooke? But there are so many Cookes. Can't you distinguish her any way? Has she no Christian name?

Mr. B. Emma, I think. Yes, Emma.

Mrs. B. Emma Cooke? No; it can not be my friend Emma Cooke; for I am sure she was cut out for an old maid.

Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife.

Mrs. B. May be so. I am sure I'll never go to see her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her?

Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw her two or three times before she was married.