It only remains to say that Mr. Higgin- For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar

of glory,

And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark

sea:

botham took the pedler into high favor, sanctioned his addresses to the pretty schoolmistress and settled his whole property on their children, allowing themselves the interest. In due time the old gentleman capped the climax of his favors by dying a Christian Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free! death in bed, since which melancholy event Dominicus Pike has removed from Kimballton and established a large tobacco-manufactory in my native village.

THOMAS MOORE.

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

"And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took

a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances."-EXODUS XV. 20.

WHERE ARE THE WICKED BURIED?

through

And studied the epitaphs, old and new,
But on monument, obelisk, pillar or stone

OUND the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's I read no evil that men have done.”

SOUN

dark sea:

Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free.
Sing, for the pride of the tyrant is broken,

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid
and brave;

The old sexton stood by a grave newly

made,

With his chin on his hand, his hand on a spade;

How vain was their boast! for the Lord hath I knew by the gleam of his eloquent eye That his soul was instructing his lips to reply;

but spoken,

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in

the wave.

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark

sea:

Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free.

"Who is to judge when the soul takes its flight?

Who is to judge 'twixt the wrong and the right?

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Which of us mortals shall dare to say That our neighbor was wicked who died to-day?

Lord!

His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword.

Who shall return to tell Egypt the story

Of those she sent forth in the hour of her

pride?

"In our journey through life the farther we speed,

The better we learn that humanity's need

Like a bold mariner. There is no bough
But lifteth its appealing arm to heaven.
The scudding grass is shivering as it flies,
And herbs and flowers crouch to their mother
Earth

Like frightened children. Tis more terri-
ble

When the hoarse thunder speaks, and the fleet wind

Stops like a steed that knows his rider's
voice,

For oh, the rush that follows is the calm
Of a despairing heart; and, as a maniac
Loses his grief in raving, the mad storm,
Weeping hot tears, awakens with a sob
From its blank desolation and shrieks on.

ANNA DRINKER (Edith May).

A DROPPED TRINKET.

AT Reigate, underneath the trees,

The autumn ferns were crisped with brown,

Javelin in hand. From the north wings of And, fluttering on a fitful breeze, twilight The autumn leaves came softly down. There falls unwonted shadow, and strange As underneath a tree we stopped gloom An ornament of gold I droppedCloisters the unwilling stars. The sky is Searched for in vain by wistful eyes,

roofed

With tempest, and the moon's scant rays fall through

For there until this hour it lies

Beneath some curving fern.
Winter will bury it with leaves;

Like light let dimly through the fissured And if some future spring upheaves

rock

Vaulting a cavern. To the horizon

The green sea of the forest hath rolled back
Its levelled billows, and where mastlike trees
Sway to its bosom here and there a vine,
Braced to some pine's bare shaft, clings,
rocked aloft

A golden blossom on the sprout
A fallen acorn then puts out,
My little gem, obscured so long,
May wake a wandering poet's song,
Who, heedless of his steps, may pass,
And there, amidst the tangled grass,
Its shining may discern.

Accompanied, with damps and dreadful And wandering vanity, when least was safe,

Outstretched he lay-on the cold ground- To overreach, but, with the serpent meeting,