And then he said how well she ploughed
And made the furrows even-

Said his wife could do more work in a day
Than he could do in seven.

TWO LOVES AND A LIFE.-WILLIAM SAWYER.

7OUNDED ON THE DRAMA OF THAT NAME BY MESSRS. TOM TAYLOR AND CHAS. READE

LL

To the scaffold's foot she came :
Leaped her black eyes into flame,
Rose and fell her panting breast,—
There a pardon closely pressed.

She had heard her lover's doom,
Traitor death and shameful tomb,-
Heard the price upon his head,
"I will save him," she had said.

"Blue-eyed Annie loves him too,
She will weep, but Ruth will do;
Who should save him, sore distress'd,
Who but she who loves him best?"

To the scaffold now she came,
On her lips there rose his name,-
Rose, and yet in silence died,—
Annie nestled by his side.

Over Annie's face he bent,

Round her waist his fingers went;

"Wife" he called her-called her "wife!"

Simple word to cost a life!

In Ruth's breast the pardon lay;
But she coldly turned away:—
"He has sealed his traitor fate,
I can love, and I can hate."

"Annie is his wife," they said.

66

Be it wife, then, to the dead;
Since the dying she will mate:
I can love, and I can hate!"

"What their sin? They do but love;
Let this thought thy bosom move."
Came the jealous answer straight,-
"I can love, and I can hate!"

Mercy!" still they cried. But she:
Who has mercy upon me?
Who? My life is desolate-
I can love, and I can hate!"

From the scaffold stairs she went,
Shouts the noonday silence rent,
All the air was quick with cries,—
"See the traitor! see, he dies!"

Back she looked, with stifled scream,
Saw the axe upswinging gleam:
All her woman's anger died,—
"From the king! she faintly cried-

"From the king. His name-behold!"
Quick the parchment she unrolled :
Paused the axe in upward swing,-
"He is pardoned!" "Live the king!"

Glad the cry, and loud and long:
All about the scaffold throng,—
There entwining, fold in fold,
Raven tresses, locks of gold.

There against Ruth's tortured breast
Annie's tearful face is pressed,

While the white lips murmuring move

"I can hate-but I can love!"

THE LIGHT-HOUSE.-THOMAS MOORE.

The scene was more beautiful far to the eye,
Than if day in its pride had arrayed it :

The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure-arched sky
Looked pure as the spirit that made it:

The murmur rose soft, as I silently gazed
On the shadowy waves' playful motion,

From the dim distant hill, 'till the light-house fire blazed
Like a star in the midst of the ocean.

No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast
Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers;

The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest,
The fisherman sunk to his slumbers:

NUMBER TEN.

One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope,
All hushed was the billows' commotion,

And o'er them the light-house looked lovely as hope,—
That star of life's tremulous ocean.

The time is long past, and the scene is afar,
Yet when my head rests on its pillow,
Will memory sometimes rekindle the star
That blazed on the breast of the billow:

In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies,
And death stills the heart's last emotion;
Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise,
Like a star on eternity's ocean!

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.-THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Lochiel, a Highland chieftain, while on his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the certain ruin which awaits the unfortunate prince and his followers, on the field of Culloden.

Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown,
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair!
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave-
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave!

Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright!

Seer. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth

From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the North?

Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
But down let him stoop, from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed,-for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
O crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood!

Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled my clan,
Their swords are a thousand,-their bosoms are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws!
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-

Seer. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day!
For dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal.
"Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath,
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path!

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight;
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!-
"Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors,—
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn,

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?

Ah! no; for a darker departure is near;

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling; O mercy, dispel

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!

Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims!
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,

Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale! For never shall Albin a destiny meet

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat.

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!

And, leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame!

CATCHING THE MORNING TRAIN.-MAX ADeler.

I find that one of the most serious objections to living out of town lies in the difficulty experienced in catching the early morning train by which I must reach the city and my business. It is by no means a pleasant matter, under any circumstances to have one's movements regulated by a time-table, and to be obliged to rise to breakfast and to leave home at a certain hour, no matter how strong the temptation to delay may be. But sometimes the horrible punctuality of the train is productive of absolute suffering. For instance: I look at my watch when I get out of bed and find that I have apparently plenty of time, so I dress leisurely, and sit down to the morning meal in a frame of mind which is calm and serene. Just as I crack my first egg I hear the down train from Wilmington. I start in alarm; and taking out my watch, I compare it with the clock and find that it is eleven minutes slow, and that I have only five minutes left in which to get to the depot.

I endeavor to scoop the egg from the shell, but it burns my fingers, the skin is tough, and after struggling with it for a moment, it mashes into a hopeless mess. I drop it in disgust and seize a roll; while I scald my tongue with a quick mouthful of coffee. Then I place the roll in my mouth while my wife hands me my satchel and tells me she thinks she hears the whistle. I plunge madly around looking for my umbrella, then I kiss the family good-bye as well as I can with a mouth full of roll, and dash toward the door.