The murmur and the moan, the cries and groans, all then spake home to me; and I felt as though I were guilty of their blood. In these sad, these sickly, but salutary thoughts, I had no leisure then to indulge; for I was roused by the arrival of an aide-de-camp, informing me that the enemy had taken up a position, from which it was determined to drive them that evening, and desiring me to move up with every effective man I could muster. 1 formed the skeletons of the brave regiments, whose comrades lay slain and wounded around-they fell into their ranks, with mouths and lips all blackened from the biting of their cartridges, and their very smiles were fearful to behold. Thus was I hurried on, and away from my very grief. The same evening we had a brilliant and successful affair with the enemy; and I myself received a wound which disabled me for the rest of the campaign. I bless the hand which gave it. It was the first leisure of my life, in which God wrought truly and effectually the work of mercy on my heart-his humble instrument, my negro, Francis. I carry but one book now-it was Harry's. I did not know, till Francis told me, how much and how constantly the boy read it. This pocket Bible, stained as you see with blood, was his-was found upon the field-where it had been thrown aside, by the ruffian who rifled his body."

Here he drew the little volume from his pocket, and shewed me the name- Harry Ardent, the gift of his mother, on his twelfth birth-day.' There was a verse on the

blank leaf, from the book of Proverbs: 'I love them that love me, and those that seek me early shall find me." It was marked all through with crosses, and notes of admiration, as if it had been read, again and again, with meditation, and prayer.

"You see, sir," said the veteran, "I have gotten the right medicine. I feel myself a weaned child—and the hope of that glory, which is rest, purity, and a sinless existence for ever, has dried up my tears; but yet, at times, if I meet parents mourning for a youthful son, or see a fair girl, with lips, whose pensiveness seems fixed for ever: 'did you too give son or lover to some old man's protection, and send him to the wars?' I whisper to myself; and yet it was not me-'you cannot say I did it; but, however, I am getting the better of such infirmity. The truth is, sir, for a long time, I was not quite myself on this matter."

I was interested by the tale, and hoped to mingle hearts with this stranger for the day; but, just as I was about to propose our passing it together, a dismounted guard of hussars came clanking round the corner of the palace, with a measured and martial tread, and the old gentleman starting up, thrust his Bible into his pocket, and giving me a silent, but expressive farewell, hurried away alone, with his sorrow and his consolation.

MEET ME AT SUNSET.

BY ALARIC A. WATTS.

I.

MEET me at sunset-the hour we love best,

Ere day's last crimson blushes have died in the west,-
When the shadowless ether is blue as thine eye,
And the breeze is as balmy and soft as thy sigh;
When giant-like forms lengthen fast o'er the ground
From the motionless mill and the linden trees round;
When the stillness below-the mild radiance above,
Softly sink on the heart, and attune it to love.

II.

Meet me at sunset-oh! meet me once more,

'Neath the wide-spreading thorn where you met me of

yore,

When our hearts were as calm as the broad summer sea That lay gleaming before us, bright, boundless, and

free;

And, with hand clasped in hand, we sat trance-bound,

and deemed

That life would be ever the thing it then seemed.—
The tree we then planted, green record! lives on,
But the hopes that grew with it are faded and gone.

III.

Meet me at sunset, beloved! as of old,

When the boughs of the chestnut are waving in gold ;
When the starry clematis bends down with its bloom,
And the jasmine exhales a more witching perfume.
That sweet hour shall atone for the anguish of years,
And though fortune still frown, bid us smile through our

tears:

Through the storms of the future shall soothe and sustain ; Then, meet me at sunset-oh, meet me again!

TO A HAWK.

BY THE REV. E. W. BARNARD.

I.

How gallantly thy soaring wing
Hath won yon place on high!
And there remains, unwavering,
As if its home were in the sky!
Usurper! thence thou spread'st afar
Terror-like some portentous star!
The birds that skim the lower air
To covert dark, with shrieks repair;
For well thy sudden swoop they know,
Thy lightning glance, and deadly blow.
The leveret crouches close and still,
On rushy brake and sheltering hill;
With rustling wing, and fearful wail,
Slow round their young the plovers sail;
And Man's dim eye and giddy brain

Up to that dazzling height strain after thee in vain.