The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned,

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been !"

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been !"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT."

[This touching incident in English history should be read without formality of manner, in which case it makes a choice reading. Study variety.]

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kiss'd the foreheads of a man and maiden fair,
He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair;
He with sad bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and
white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its walls so dark and gloomy-walls so dark, so damp, and cold

"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die,

At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.

Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night."

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton-every word pierced her young

heart

Like a thousand gleaming arrows-like a deadly poisoned dart;

"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour;

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right.

Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow; She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the Curfew-Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright

One low murmur, scarcely spoken—“ Curfew must not ring to-night.”

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying:
"Curfew shall not ring to-night."

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell,
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell;
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now-
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her
brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs and grasps it firmly-" Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck below;

There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and

fro;

And the half-deaf Sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell), And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell; Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating-" Curfew shall not ring to-night."

It was o'er the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once

more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before
Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done
Should be told in long years after-as the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads of white
Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her brow,
Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty now;
At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity-lit his eyes with misty light;
Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not ring to
night."

66

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre to this day."-Deut. xxxiv: 6.

[Characteristic-Effusive Orotund.]

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;

But no man dug that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,
And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping,
Or saw the train go forth ;
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun,

Noiselessly as the spring-time

Her crown of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves,— So, without sound of music Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle,
On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie,

Looked on the wondrous sight;
Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot;

For beast aud bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

Lo, when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,
Follow the funeral car.

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the sage to rest,
And give the bard an honored place,
With costly marble dressed,

In the great minster transept,

Where lights like glories fall,

And the choir sings, and the organ rings Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior

That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with the golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hillside for his pall;
To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave,—

In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again—O wondrous thought!—
Before the judgment day,

And stand, with glory wrapped around,
On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life
With the incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land,
O dark Beth-peor's hill,

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace,—

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him he loved so well.

APOSTROPHE TO COLD WATER.

[Paul Denton, a Methodist preacher in Texas, advertised a barbecue, with better liquor than is usually furnished. When the people were assembled, a desperado in the crowd walked up to him, and cried out: "Mr. Denton, your reverence has lied. You promised not only a good barbecue, but better liquor. Where's the liquor?"

"THERE!" answered the preacher, in tones of thunder, pointing his motionless finger at a spring gushing up in two strong columns, with a sound like a shout of joy, from the bosom of the earth.]

"THERE!" he repeated, with a look terrible as lightning, while his enemy actually trembled at his feet; "there is the liquor which God, the Eternal, brews for all his children. Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires, choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors and corruptions, doth your Father in heaven. prepare the precious essence of life-pure, cold water; but in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders, and the child loves to play, there God brews it: and down, low down in the deepest valleys, where the