Clammy with anguish, wandered low and Forward and backward. But at last she loose stopped,

O'er their bare breasts, that seemed too filled And her dark head upon her bosom dropped with trouble

To feel the damp crawl of the midnight dews

That trickled down them. One was bent half double,

Motionless.

Then one rose up with a cry

To the great moon, and stretched a wrathful

arm

Of wild expostulation to the sky,

A dismayed heap that hung o'er the last Murmuring, "These earth-lamps fail us! and spark

Of a lamp slowly dying. As she blew

The dull light redder, and the dry wick flew

In crumbling sparkles all about the dark,

I saw a light of horror in her eyes,

what harm?

Does not the moon shine? Let us rise and

haste

To meet the Bridegroom yonder over the

waste!

For now I seem to catch once more the tone

A wild light on her flushed cheek, a wild Of viols on the night. 'Twere better done, white

On her dry lips-an agony of surprise

Fearfully fair.

At worst, to perish near the golden gate,

And fall in sight of glory one by one,
Than here all night upon the wild to wait

The lamp dropped. From my sight Uncertain ills. Away! the hour is late." She fell into the dark.

Beside her sat

Again the moon dipped.

I could see no more:

One without motion, and her stern face Not the least gleam of light did heaven afflat

Against the dark sky.
One, as still as death,
Hollowed her hands about her lamp, for

fear

Some motion of the midnight or her breath
Should fan out the last flicker. Rosy-clear,
The light oozed through her fingers o'er her

face.

There was a ruined beauty hovering there
Over deep pain, and dashed with lurid grace
A waning bloom.

The light grew dim and blear,
And she too slowly darkened in her place.
Another, with her white hands hotly locked
About her damp knees, muttering madness,

rocked

The chief's eye flashed, but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye

When her bruised eaglet breathes:

"You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride

Touched to the quick, he said:

"I'm killed, sire!" And his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead.

ROBERT BROWNING.

THE DEATH OF MURAT.

"MY

Y

That upon which I latest gaze, that which I fondest clasp

hour is come. Forget me not. When death upon my eyeballs sinks and My blessing is with you;

stiffens on my grasp

With you my last, my fondest thought; with This, and these locks around it twined, say, you my heart's adieu.

wilt thou see them sent

Farewell, farewell, my Caroline, my chil- Need I say where? Enough? 'tis kind! To dren's doting mother!

I made thee wife, Fate made thee queen: one hour, and thou art neither.

death, then! I'm content.

Oh to have found death in the field, not as a chained outlaw!

Farewell, my sweet Letitia: my love is with No more! To destiny I yield, with mightier thee still;

Louise and Lucien, adieu; and thou, my own

Achille."

With quivering lip, but with no tear, or tear

that gazers saw,

These words, to all his heart held dear, thus wrote the brave Murat.

than Murat!"

They led him forth; 'twas but a stride between his prison room

And where, with yet a monarch's pride, he met a felon's doom.

"Soldiers, your muzzles to my breast will leave brief space for pain.

Then, of the locks which, dark and large, Strike to the heart!" His last behest was

o'er his broad shoulders hung,

That streamed war-pennons in the charge, yet like caressings clung

uttered not in vain.

He turned full to the levelled tubes that held the wished-for boon;

volleyed the platoon.

In peace around his forehead high, which He gazed upon the love-clasped pledge: then more than diadem Beseemed the curls that lovingly replaced And when their hold the hands gave up, the the cold hard gem,

pitying gazers saw

He cut him one for wife, for child: 'twas all In the dear image of a wife thy heart's best he had to will;

Where dost thou dwell? what caverns of the One praised her ankles, one her eyes,

THE SUPERANNUATED MAN.

F peradventure, reader, it has | Prints, pictures, all the glittering and endless succession of knacks and gew-gaws and ostentatiously displayed wares of tradesmen which make a weekday saunter through the less busy parts of the metropolis so delightful, are shut out-no bookstalls deliciously to idle over; no busy faces to recreate the idle man who contemplates them ever passing by; the very face of business a charm by contrast to his temporary relaxation from it; nothing to be seen but unhappy countenances or half happy at best-of emancipated 'prentices and little tradesfolk, with here and there a servant-maid that has got leave to go out, who, slaving all the week, with the habit has lost almost the capacity of enjoying a free hour, and livelily expressing the hollowness of a day's pleasuring. The very strollers in the fields on that day look anything but comfortable.

been thy lot to waste the golden years of thy life, thy shining youth, in the irksome confinement of an office; to have thy prison-days prolonged through middle age down to decrepitude and silver hairs without hope of release or respite; to have lived to forget that there are such things as holidays, or to remember them but as the prerogatives of childhood,—then, and then only, will you be able to appreciate my deliverance.

It is now six and thirty years since I took my seat at the desk in Mincing Lane. Melancholy was the transition at fourteen from the abundant playtime and the frequently intervening vacations of school-days to the eight, nine, and sometimes ten, hours a day attendance at the counting-house. But time partially reconciles us to anything. I gradually became content-doggedly contented, as wild animals in cages.

It is true I had my Sundays to myself; but Sundays, admirable as the institution of them is for purposes of worship, are for that very reason the very worst adapted for days of unbending and recreation. In particular there is a gloom for me attendant upon a city Sunday, a weight in the air. I miss the cheerful cries of London, the music and the ballad-singers, the buzz and stirring murmur of the streets. Those eternal bells deThe closed shops repel me. press me.

But, besides Sundays, I had a day at Easter and a day at Christmas, with a full week in the summer to go and air myself in my native fields of Hertfordshire. This last was a great indulgence, and the prospect of its recurrence, I believe, alone kept me up through the year and made my durance tolerable. But when the week came around, did the glittering phantom of the distance keep touch with me? or rather was it not a series of seven uneasy days spent in restless pursuit of pleasure and a wearisome anxiety to find out how to make the most of them? Where was the quiet? where the promised rest? Before I had a taste of it, it was vanished. I was at the desk again, counting