LXXXVI. THE SOLDIER OF THE RHINE.

Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton (b. 1808, d. 1877) was the granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. She wrote verses and plays at a very early age. "The Sorrows of Rosalie," published in 1829, was written before she was seventeen years old. In 1827, she was married to the Hon. George Chapple Norton. The marriage was an unhappy one, and they were divorced in 1836. Her principal works are "The Undying One," "The Dream, and Other Poems," "The Child of the Islands," ," "Stuart of Dunleith, a Romance," and "English Laws for English Women of the 19th Century." She has contributed extensively to the magazines and other periodicals.

1. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of wom

an's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed

away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.

2. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And, 'mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many

scars;

But some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,

And one had come from Bingen,— fair Bingen on the Rhine.

3. "Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, For I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and, even when a child,

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and

wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's

sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen,—calm Bingen on the Rhine.

4. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping

head,

When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread,

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die;
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame,

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen,—dear Bingen on the Rhine.

5. "There's another, not a sister; in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her

eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning,— O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life—(for, ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine.

6. I saw the blue Rhine sweep along: I heard, or seemed to hear,
The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and

still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,

Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered

walk;

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,—

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,-loved Bingen on the Rhine."

7. His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse; his grasp was childish weak,

His eyes put on a dying look,— he sighed and ceased to speak.
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!
And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strewn ;
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene, her pale light seemed to
shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen,—fair Bingen on the Rhine.

DEFINITIONS. 1. Legion (pro. lē ́jun), division of an army. Dearth (pro. dêrth), scarcity. Ebbed, flowed out. 2. Côrse, a dead body. 4. Stead'fast, firm, resolute. 5. Co'quet-ry, trifling in love. 6. Cho'rus, music in which all join. Yōre, old times.

NOTE.-1. Bingen is pronounced Bing'en, not Bin'gen, nor Bin'jen.

LXXXVII. THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.

Charles Sprague (b. 1791, d. 1875) was born in Boston, Massachusetts. He engaged in mercantile business when quite young, leaving school for that purpose. In 1825, he was elected cashier of the Globe Bank of Boston, which position he held until 1864. Mr. Sprague has not been a prolific writer; but his poems, though few in number, are deservedly classed among the best productions of American poets. His chief poem is entitled "Curiosity."

What seek ye from the fields of heaven?

Ye have no need of prayer,

Ye have no sins to be forgiven.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Why perch ye here,

Where mortals to their Maker bend?
Can your pure spirits fear
The God ye never could offend?

Ye never knew

The crimes for which we come to weep:
Penance is not for you,

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep.

To you 't is given

To wake sweet Nature's untaught lays;

Beneath the arch of heaven

To chirp away a life of praise.

Then spread each wing,

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands,
And join the choirs that sing

In yon blue dome not reared with hands.

Or, if ye stay

To note the consecrated hour,

Teach me the airy way,

And let me try your envied power.

Above the crowd,

On upward wings could I but fly,

I'd bathe in yon bright cloud,
And seek the stars that gem the sky.

'T were Heaven indeed,

Through fields of trackless light to soar,

On Nature's charms to feed,

And Nature's own great God adore.

3.

DEFINITIONS. 2. Perch, to light or settle on any thing. Pěn ́ançe, suffering for sin. 4. Lays, songs. 5. Choir (pro. kwir), a collection of singers. Dōme, an arched structure above a roof; hence, figuratively, the heavens. 6. Con'se-erat-ed, set apart for the service of God. 8. Track'less, having no path.

NOTE. This little poem was addressed to two swallows, that flew into church during service.

LXXXVIII. THE PEEVISH WIFE.

Maria Edgeworth (b. 1767, d. 1849) was born near Reading, Berkshire, England. In 1782 her father removed with his family to Edgeworthtown, Ireland, to reside on his estate. She lived here during the remainder of her life, with the exception of occasional short visits to England, Scotland, and France. She was educated principally by her father, and they were co-laborers in literary productions, among which were "Essays on Practical Education," and the "Parent's Assistant." Her novels and tales were written without assistance, and her fame as a writer rests on them. The best known of these are Castle Rackrent," "Moral Tales," "Tales of Fashionable Life," "Frank," "The Modern Griselda," and "Helen." Miss Edgeworth excels in the truthful delineation of character, and her works are full of practical good sense and genuine humor.

Mrs. Bolingbroke. I WISH I knew what was the matter with me this morning. Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear?

Mr. Bolingbroke. Here it is for you, my dear; I have finished it.

Mrs. B. I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it. I hate stale news. Is there any thing in the paper? for I can not be at the trouble of hunting it.

Mr. B. Yes, my dear; there are the marriages of two of our friends.

Mrs. B. Who? Who?

Mr. B. Your friend, the widow Nettleby, to her cousin John Nettleby.

(5.-18.)