And await her, and wait till the next hollow moon
Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon
And swift she would join me, and all would be well
Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell
From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire,
The last that I saw was a look of delight
That I should escape,-a love,—a desire,—
Yet never a word, not a look of appeal,

Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay heel
One instant for her in my terrible flight.

Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under,
And the howling of beasts like the sound of thunder,—
Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over,
As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her
Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died,—
Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan,

As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone,

And into the Brazos I rode all alone,

All alone, save only a horse long-limbed,

And blind and bare and burnt to the skin.

Then just as the terrible sea came in

And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide,

Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed

In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.

Sell Paché, blind Paché? Now, mister, look here,
You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer
Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier,

For the ways they were rough and Camanches were near;
But you'd better pack up! Curse your dirty skin!

I couldn't have thought you so niggardly small.

Do you men that make boots think an old mountaineer
On the rough border born has no tum-tum at all?
Sell Paché? You buy him! A bag full of gold!
You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told!
Why he bore me through fire, and is blind, and is old!
Now pack up your papers and get up and spin,
And never look back! Blast you and your tin!

THE BULL-FIGHT.-LORD BYRON.

Hushed is the din of tongues; on gallant steeds,
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance.

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,

And lowly bending to the lists advance;

Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance;
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,
But all afoot, the light-limbed Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade

The lord of lowing herds; but not before

The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed;
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed,—
Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns with sounding foot
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foc;

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to-and fro

His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

Sudden he stops; his eye is fixed: away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear;
Now is thy time to perish, or display

The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well timed croupe the nimble coursers veer;
On foams the ball, but not unscathed he goes:
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear;
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes;
Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings speak his

woes.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
Though man and man's avenging arms assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;
Another, hideous sight! unseamed appears,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source;

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;

Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharmed he bears.

Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,

'Mid wounds and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray;

And now the Matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak and poise the ready brand;
Once more through all he bursts his thundering way—
Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,
Wraps his fierce eye-'tis past-he sinks upon the sand!

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies;
He stops-he starts-disdaining to decline;
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle, dies.
The decorated car appears; on high

The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes-
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.

DEATH OF LITTLE NELL.*-CHARLES DICKENS.

He

You

By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the inner chamber, while these words were spoken. pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips,— "You plot among you to wean my heart from her. will never do that-never while I have life. I have no relative or friend but her-I never had-I never will have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to part us now."

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew close together, and after a few whispered words, -not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered,-followed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps made no noise, but there were sobs from among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning.

For she was dead.

There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now.

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived and suffered death.

Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. "When I die, put near me something that

*See "Little Nell's Funeral," No. 3, p. 72.

has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." Those were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird-a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would have crushed-was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless forever.

Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and perfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change Yes. The old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty, after death.

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small hand tight folded to his breast, for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smilethe hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and as he said it, he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.

She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast, the garden she had tended,-the eyes she had gladdened-the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtless hour-the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday→→ could know her no more.

"It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the check, and give his tears free vent, "it is not on earth that heaven's justice ends. Think what it is compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it?"

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.-JOHN G. WHITTIER.

Of all the rides since the birth of Time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,—

On Apuleius's Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human hack,
Islam's prophet on Al-Borak,—
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's, out from Marblehead!

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!

Body of turkey, head of owl,

Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase;
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,

With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,

Over and over the Mænads sang:

"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,

Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt

By the women o' Morble'ead!”

Small pity for him! He sailed away
From a leaking ship, in Chaleur Bay,-
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,

With his own towns-people on her deck!
"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him;
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!

Brag of your catch of fish again!"

And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!