But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die; For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen on the Rhine! "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,— Oh! 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! "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along-I heard, or seemed to hear [and clear; The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet 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!" His 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 corses strown; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Lament of the Irish Emigrant. M sittin' on the stile, Mary, I'M Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, The corn was springin' fresh and green, The place is little changed, Mary- 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands nearThe church where we were wed. Mary, I see the spire from here. And my step might break your rest— For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, O, they love the better still The few our Father sends! And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin' and my pride; Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, When the trust in God had left my sou., And my arm's young strength was gone; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow- I thank you for the patient smile, I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore- I'm biddin' you a long farewell, In the land I'm goin' to; They say there's bread and work for all, Were it fifty times as fair! And often in those grand old woods And my heart will travel back again Where we sat side by side; And the springing corn, and the bright May morn When first you were my bride. -Lady Dufferin. 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer. IS the last rose of summer, 'I Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee; thou lone one! To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping, Thy leaves o'er the bed, So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie wither'd, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? -Thomas Moore. HA Soliloquy on Death. [From "Hamlet, Prince of Denmark."] AMLET.-To be, or not to be,-that is the question: Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, With a bare bodkin? for who would fardels bear, EV Eva's Death. ➡VA, after this, declined rapidiy; there was no more any doubt of the event; the fondest hope could not be blinded. Her beautiful room was avowedly a sick-room; and Miss Ophelia, day and night, performed the duties of a nurse, aud never did her friends appreciate her value more than in that capacity. With so well-trained a hand and eye, such perfect adroitness and practice in every art which could promote neatness and comfort and keep out of sight every disagreeable incident of sickness,-with such a perfect sense of time, such a clear, untroubled head, such exact accuracy in remembering every prescription and direction of the doctors,—she was everything to St. Clair. They who had shrugged their shoulders at the little peculiarities and setnesses-so unlike the careless freedom of Southern manners-acknowledged that now she was the exact person that was wanted. Uncle Tom was much in Eva's room. The child suffered much from nervous restlessness, and it was a relief to her to be carried; and it was Tom's greatest delight to carry her little frail form in his arms, resting on a pillow, now up and down her room, now out into the veranda; and when the fresh sea-breezes blew from the lake,—and the child felt freshest in the morning, he would sometimes walk with her under the orange-trees in the garden, or sitting down in some of their old seats, sing to her their favorite old hymns. Her father often did the same thing; but his frame was slighter, and when he was weary, Eva would say to him, "Oh, papa, let Tom take me. Poor fellow! it pleases him; and you know it's all he can do now, and he wants to do something!' "So do I, Eva!" said her father. "Well, papa, you can do everything, and are everything to me. You read to me,-you sit up at nights; and Tom has only this one thing, and his singing; and I know, too, he does it easier than you can. He carries me so strong!" The desire to do something was not confined to Tom. Every servant in the establishment showed the same feeling, and in their way did what they could. But the friend who knew most of Eva's own imaginings and foreshadowings was her faithful bearer, Tom. him she said what she would not disturb her father by saying. To him she imparted those mysterious intimations which the soul feels as the cords begin to unbind ere it leaves its clay forever. Tom, at last, would not sleep in his room, but lay all night in the outer veranda, ready to rouse at every call. "Uncle Tom, what alive have you taken to sleeping anywhere and everywhere, like a dog, for?" said Miss Ophelia. "I thought you was one of the orderly sort that liked to lie in bed in a Christian way." "I do, Miss Feely," said Tom, mysteriously. "I do; but now-” "Well, what now?" "We mustn't speak loud; Mas'r St. Clair wont hear on't; but Miss Feely, you know nere must be somebody watchin' for the bridegroom." "What do you mean, Tom?" "You know it says in Scripture, 'At midnight there was a great cry made. Behold the bridegroom cometh.' That's what I'm spectin' now, every night, Miss Feely; and I couldn't sleep out o' hearin' no ways." "Why, Uncle Tom, what makes you think so?" "Miss Eva, she talks to me. The Lord, He sends his messenger in the soul. I must be thar, Miss Feely; for when that ar blessed child goes into the kingdom they'll open the door so wide, we'll all get a look in at the glory, Miss Feely." "Uncle Tom, did Eva say she felt more unwell than usual to-night?" "No; but she telled me this morning she was comin' nearer-thar's them that tells it to the child, Miss Feely. It's the angels,-'it's the trumpet sound afore the break o' day,'" said Tom, quoting from a favorite hymn. This dialogue passed between Miss Ophelia and Tom, between ten and eleven, one evening, after her arrangements had all been made for the night, when on going to bolt her outer door, she found Tom stretched along by it, in the outer veranda. She was not nervous or impressible; but the solemn, heartfelt manner struck her. Eva had been unusually bright and cheerful that afternoon, and had sat raised in her bed, and looked over all her little trinkets and precious things, and designated the friends to whom she would have them given; and her manner was more animated, and her voice more natural than they had known it for weeks. Her father had been in, in the evening, and had said that Eva appeared more like her former self than ever she had done since her sickness; and when he kissed her for the night, he said to Miss Ophelia, "Cousin, we may keep her with us after all: she is certainly better;" and he had retired with a lighter heart in his bosom than he had had there for weeks. But at midnight,-strange, mystic hour!-when the veil between the frail present and the eternal future grows thin-then came the messenger! There was a sound in that chamber, first of one who stepped quickly. It was Miss |