She had listened while the judges read without a tear or sigh, Should illume the sky with beauty; aged sires, with heads of white, "At the ringing of the curfew Basil Under- Long should tell the little children curfew did wood must die." not ring that night. WICLIF. ONCE more the church is seized with sudden fear, And at her call is Wiclif disinhumed: Thus speaks (that Voice which walks upon the wind, Though seldom heard by busy human-kind) : "As thou these ashes, little brook, wilt bear Into the Avon, Avon to the tide Of Severn, Severn to the narrow seas, WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 'T was but the ruin of the bad, Calm grew the brows of him I feared; The grain grew green on battle-plains, O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow; The slave stood forging from his chains The spade and plough. Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay And cottage windows, flower-entwined, Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red, The lights on brimming crystal fell, Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head And mossy well. Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope, Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed, And with the idle gallows-rope The young child played. Where the doomed victim in his cell ST AUGUSTINE. WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER, a counsellor-at-law, of New York City, is son of the late Benjamin F. Butler, who was member of the Cabinet during the administration of President Jackson. He was born at Albany, N. Y, in 1825, and has resided mostly in the city of New York, from the University of which he graduated in 1843. His poems have been collected in a volume, published in Boston. The best known of them is entitled " of City Life" Nothing to Wear; an Episode It appeared without author's name, in Many editions of "Harpers' Weekly," in February, 1857it were issued, and it was even advertised in London, with humanitarian tracts, as an indication of the evils of the dressmaking system. Mr. Butler has contributed to the periodicals of the day both prose and verse: CHARLEMAGNE, the mighty monarch, As through Metten wood he strayed, Found the holy hermit, Hutto, Toiling in the forest glade. In his hand the woodman's hatchet, By his side the knife and twine, There he cut and bound the fagots From the gnarled and stunted pine. Well the monarch knew the hermit For his pious works and cares, And the wonders which had followed From his vigils, fasts, and prayers. Much he marvelled now to see him Toiling thus, with axe and cord; And he cried in scorn, "O Father, Is it thus you serve the Lord ?” 1871. WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER |