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 battlefield, with bloody corses 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. Le'gion (pro. lē'jun), division of an army. Dearth (pro. dêrth), scarcity. Ebbed, flowed out. 2. Côrse, a dead body. 4. Stead'fast, firm, resolute. love. 6. Chō'rus, music in which all join.

5. Co-quet'ry, trifling in Yōre, old times.

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

LXXXVII. THE WINGED WORSHIPERS.

Charles Sprague (b. 1791, d. 1875) was born in Boston, Mass. 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 'tis 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.

DEFINITIONS.

2.

Perch, to light or settle on anything. 3. Pěn'ançe, suffering for sin. 4. Lāys, 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 colaborers 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 anything 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.

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

(5.-18.)

Mrs. B. Mrs. Nettleby? Dear! But why did you tell me?

Mr. B.

Because you asked me, my dear.

One loses all the pleasure

Mrs. B. Oh, but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph one's self. of the surprise by being told. marriage?

Well, whose was the other

Mr. B. Oh, my dear, I will not tell you; I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise.

Mrs. B. But you see I can not find it. How provoking you are, my dear! Do pray tell me.

Mr. B.
Mrs. B.

Our friend Mr. Granby.

Mr. Granby? Dear! Why did you not make me guess? I should have guessed him directly. But why do you call him our friend? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was. I took an aversion to him, as you remember, the very first day I saw him. I am sure he is no friend of mine.

Mr. B. I am sorry for it, my dear; but I hope you will go and see Mrs. Granby.

Mrs. B. Not I, indeed, my dear. Who was she?

Mr. B. Miss Cooke.

Mrs. B. Cooke? But there are so many Cookes. Can't you distinguish her any way? Has she no Christian

name?

Mr. B. Emma, I think. Yes, Emma.

Mrs. B. Emma Cooke? No; it can not be my friend Emma Cooke; for I am sure she was cut out for an old maid.

Mr. B. This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife.

Mrs. B. Maybe so. I am sure I'll never go to see her. Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her?

Mr. B. I have seen very little of her, my dear. I only saw her two or three times before she was married.

Mrs. B. Then, my dear, how could you decide that she was cut out for a good wife? I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was married.

Mr. B. Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation.

Mrs. B. I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank you for it, my dear. I must own I can bear anything better than irony.

Mr. B. Irony? my dear, I was perfectly in earnest.

Mrs. B. Yes, yes; in earnest; so I perceive; I may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough; I comprehend too well. Yes, it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience; you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice.

Mr. B. My dear, what did I say that was like this? Upon my word, I meant no such thing. I really was not thinking of you in the least.

Mrs. B. No, you never think of me now. I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the least.

Mr. B. But I said that only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear.

Mrs. B. But I would rather that you thought ill of me than that you should not think of me at all.

Mr. B. Well, my dear, I will even think ill of you if that will please you.

Mrs. B. Do you laugh at me? When it comes to this I am wretched indeed. Never man laughed at the woman he loved. As long as you had the slightest remains of love for me you could not make me an object of derision; ridicule and love are incompatible, absolutely incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby!