"Trouble the Master not-for she is dead!" And his faint hand fell nerveless at his side, And his steps falter'd, and his broken voice Chok'd in its utterance ;-But a gentle hand Was laid upon his arm, and in his ear The Saviour's voice sank thrillingly and low, "She is not dead-but sleepeth."

They pass'd in.

The spice-lamps in the alabaster urns

Burn'd dimly, and the white and fragrant smoke Curl'd indolently on the chamber walls.

The silken curtains slumbered in their folds-
Not ev❜n a tassel stirring in the air-

And as the Saviour stood beside the bed,
And pray'd inaudibly, the Ruler heard
The quickening division of his breath
As he grew earnest inwardly. There came
A gradual brightness o'er his calm sad face,
And drawing nearer to the bed, he mov'd
The silken curtains silently apart
And look'd upon the maiden.

Like a form

Of matchless sculpture in her sleep she layThe linen vesture folded on her breast, And over it her white transparent hands, The blood still rosy in their tapering nails. A line of pearl ran through her parted lips, And in her nostrils, spiritually thin, The breathing curve was mockingly like life, And round beneath the faintly tinted skin Ran the light branches of the azure veins— And on her cheek the jet lash overlay Matching the arches pencill'd on her brow: Her hair had been unbound, and falling loose Upon her pillow, hid her small round ears In curls of glossy blackness, and about Her polished neck, scarce touching it, they hung Like airy shadows floating as they slept. 'Twas heavenly beautiful. The Saviour rais'd Her hand from off her bosom, and spread out The snowy fingers in his palm, and said "Maiden! Arise !"—and suddenly a flush Shot o'er her forehead, and along her lips And through her cheek the rallied color ran,

And the still outline of her graceful form Stirr'd in the linen vesture, and she clasp'd The Saviour's hand, and fixing her dark eyes Full on his beaming countenance—AROSE !

THE SOLDIER'S WIDOW.

Wo for my vine clad home!

That it should ever be so dark to me,

With its bright threshold, and its whispering tree!

That I should ever come,

Fearing the lonely echo of a tread

Beneath the roof-tree of my glorious dead!

Lead on my orphan boy!

Thy home is not so desolate to thee

And the low shiver in the linden tree

May bring to thee a joy ;

But, oh, how dark is the bright home before thee, To her who with a joyous spirit bore thee!

Lead on! for thou art now

My sole remaining helper. God hath spoken,

And the strong heart I lean'd upon is broken;
And I have seen his brow,

The forehead of my upright one, and just,
Trod by the hoof of battle to the dust.

He will not meet thee there

Who blest thee at the eventide, my son!
And when the shadows of the night steal on,

He will not call to prayer.

The lips that melted, giving thee to God,
Are in the icy keeping of the sod!

Ay, my own boy! thy sire

Is with the sleepers of the valley cast,

And the proud glory of my life hath past

With his high glance of fire.

Wo that the linden and the vine should bloom, And a just man be gather'd to the tomb !

Why-bear them proudly, boy!

It is the sword he girded to his thigh—