Beautiful as some fair angel yet,

Thus lamented Margaret:

"He has arrived; arrived at last,

Yet Jane has named him not these three days past;

But some one comes! Though blind, my heart

can see!

And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he!"
With outstretched arms, but sightless eyes,
She rises; 'tis only Paul, her brother, who thus
cries:

"Angela, the bride, has passed.

Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?" "Angela married! and not send

To tell her secret unto me!

Oh! speak! who may the bridegroom be?"
"My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend!"

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said;
A milky whiteness upon her cheek is spread.
"Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!
I would don my hose of homespun gray,
And my doublet of linen, striped and gay.
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven, it is said!"
"Paul, be not sad! 'tis a holiday;
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay;
But leave me now for awhile alone.'

Away with a hop and a jump went Paul,
And as he whistled along the hall,

Entered Jane, the crippled crone.

"I'm faint! What dreadful heat!
My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?"

66

Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride; And as I listened to the song,

I thought my turn would come ere long:
Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide."

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press;
"Thy love I cannot all approve;

We must not trust too much to happiness: Go, pray to God that thou may'st love him less." "The more I pray the more I love!

It is no sin, for God is on my side!"

It was enough, and Jane no more replied,
But when departing at the evening's close,
She murmured, "She may be saved, she nothing
knows!"

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating.
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,
How differently!

The one fantastic, light as air,
'Mid kisses ringing

And joyous singing

Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow, Joins her two hands and kneels upon the floor,

And whispers, as her brother opes the door,

་

"O God! forgive me now!"

And then the orphan, young and blind,

Conducted by her brother's hand,

Toward the church, through paths unscanned,

With tranquil air her way doth wind.

"Paul," said Margaret, "where are we? we ascend !"

"Yes, we are at our journey's end! Come in! The bride will be here soon;

Thou tremblest!

swoon ?"

O Margaret! art going to

But no more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks, as for a feast arrayed,

And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.

The guests delay not long,

Soon arrives the village throng.

The wedding-ring is blessed; Baptiste receives it, Ere on the finger of the bride he leaves it.

He must say one word! 'tis said, and suddenly at his side,

""Tis he !" a well-known voice hath cried.

And while the wedding guests all hold their breath, Lo! Margaret, the blind girl, see!

"Baptiste," she said, "since thou hast wished my death,

I freely sacrifice myself for thee !"
And calmly in the air a knife suspended.
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,
For anguish did its work so well,

That ere the fatal stroke descended
Lifeless she fell!

At eve, instead of bridal verse,
The De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a simple hearse
To the churchyard forth they bear.

Village girls in robes of snow
Follow, weeping as they go;
Nowhere was a smile that day,

No, ah! no! for each one seemed to say:

"The road should mourn and be veiled in gloom, So fair a corpse shall leave its home;

Should mourn and should weep, ah! well-away! So fair a corpse shall pass to-day."

Longfellow.

THE BRAVEST BATTLE THAT EVER WAS FOUGHT.

THE bravest battle that ever was fought,
Shall I tell you where and when?

On the maps of the world you will find it not; "Twas fought by the mothers of men.

Nay, not with cannon, or battle-shot,
With sword, or nobler pen;

Nay, not with eloquent word or thought,
From mouths of wonderful men.

But deep in a walled-up woman's heart-
Of woman that would not yield,
But bravely, silently bore her part—
Lo! there is that battle-field!

No marshalling troop, no bivouac song;
No banners to gleam and wave !
But oh! these battles they last so long-
From babyhood to the grave!

Yet faithful still as a bridge of stars,

She fights in her walled-up town-
Fights on, and on, in the endless wars,
Then silent, unseen goes down!

Oh! ye with banners and battle-shot,
And soldier to shout and praise,
I tell you the kingliest victories fought
Are fought in these silent ways!

Oh! spotless woman in a world of shame,
With splendid and silent scorn,

Go back to God as white as you came,
The kingliest warrior born.

Joaquin Miller.

THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG.

WHICH Way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say! 'Tis sure a famous city:

It must have cradled, in its day,
Full many a maid of noble clay,
And matrons wise and witty;

And if ever marriage should happen to me,
A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be.

King Conrad once, historians say,
Fell out with this good city :
So down he came, one luckless day,
Horse, foot, dragoons, in stern array,
And cannon,-more's the pity!
Around the walls the artillery roared,
And bursting bombs their fury poured.