For him the tomb that is a nation's heart, And doth endure when crumbling stones depart; To him the honour, like the brave to stand, With those who were in danger our right hand; For him no empty epitaph of dust, But that he kept for England safe her trust.

He is not dead; but, over war's loud swell, Heard he his Captain's call--and it is well.

AT THE BREACH.

BY SARAH WILLIAMS.

All over for me The struggle and possible glory!

All swept past, In the rush of my own brigade.

Will charges instead, And fills up my place in the story; Well,--'tis well, By the merry old games we played.

There's a fellow asleep, the lout! in the shade of the hillock yonder; What a dog it must be to drowse in the midst of a time like this!

Why, the horses might neigh contempt at him; what is he like, I wonder?

If the smoke would but clear away, I have strength in me yet to hiss.

Will, comrade and friend, We parted in hurry of battle; All I heard Was your sonorous, "Up, my men!"

Soon conquering paeans Shall cover the cannonade's rattle; Then, home bells, Will you think of me sometimes, then?

How that rascal enjoys his snooze! Would he wake to the touch of powder?

A reveille of broken bones, or a p.r.i.c.k of a sword might do.

"Hai, man! the general wants you;" if I could but for once call louder: There is something infectious here, for my eyelids are dropping too.

Will, can you recall The time we were lost on the Bright Down?

Coming home late in the day, As Susie was kneeling to pray, Little blue eyes and white night-gown, Saying, "Our Father, who art,-- Art what?" so she stayed with a start.

"In Heaven," your mother said softly.

And Susie sighed, "So far away!"-- 'Tis nearer, Will, now, to us all.

It is strange how that fellow sleeps! stranger still that his sleep should haunt me; If I could but command his face, to make sure of the lesser ill: I will crawl to his side and see, for what should there be to daunt me?

What there! what there! Holy Father in Heaven, not Will!

Will, dead Will!

Lying here, I could not feel you!

Will, brave Will!

Oh, alas, for the n.o.ble end!

Will, dear Will!

Since no love nor remorse could heal you, Will, good Will!

Let me die on your breast, old friend!

SANTA FILOMENA.

(FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.)

BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[It was the practice of Florence Nightingale to pay a last visit to the wards of the military hospital in the Crimea after the doctors and the other nurses had retired for the night. Bearing a light in her hand she pa.s.sed from bed to bed and from ward to ward, until she became known as "the Lady with the Lamp."]

Whene'er a n.o.ble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a n.o.ble thought, Our hearts, in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares, Out of all meaner cares.

Honour to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow, Raise us from what is low!

Thus thought I, as by night I read Of the great army of the dead, The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp,--

The wounded from the battle-plain, In dreary hospitals of pain, The cheerless corridors, The cold and stony floors.

Lo! in that house of misery A lady with a lamp I see Pa.s.s through the glimmering gloom And flit from room to room.

And slow as in a dream of bliss The speechless sufferer turns to kiss Her shadow, as it falls Upon the darkening walls.

As if a door in heaven should be Opened and then closed suddenly, The vision came and went, The light shone and was spent.

On England's annals, through the long Hereafter of her speech and song, That light its rays shall cast From portals of the past.

A lady with a lamp shall stand In the great history of the land, A n.o.ble type of good, Heroic womanhood.

Nor even shall be wanting here The palm, the lily, and the spear, The symbols that of yore St. Filomena bore.

THE LITTLE HATCHET STORY.

WITH OCCASIONAL QUESTIONS BY A FIVE-YEAR-OLD HEARER.

BY BURDETTE.

Mrs. Caruthers had left her infant prodigy, Clarence, in our care for a little while that she might not be distracted by his innocent prattle while selecting the material for a new gown.

He was a bright, intelligent boy, of five summers, with a commendable thirst for knowledge, and a praiseworthy desire to understand what was said to him.

We had described many deep and mysterious things to him, and to escape the possibility of still more puzzling questions, offered to tell him a story--_the_ story--the story of George Washington and his little hatchet. After a few necessary preliminaries we proceeded.

"Well, one day, George's father--"

"George who?" asked Clarence.

"George Washington. He was a little boy, then, just like you. One day his father--"

"Whose father?" demanded Clarence, with an encouraging expression of interest.