And startled at the sight, like the weird

woman of Endor,

Ye cry aloud, and then are still, O Bells of Lynn !

KILLED AT THE FORD.

HE is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose
pleasant word,

Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old

song:

"Two red roses he had on his cap,
And another he bore at the point of his
sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball
Came out of a wood, and the voice was

still;

Something I heard in the darkness fall, And for a moment my blood grew chill; I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks In a room where some one is lying dead But he made no answer to what I said.

;

flocks;

From room to room I hear the wakeful clocks

Challenge the passing hour, like guards that keep

Their solitary watch on tower and steep;

Far off I hear the crowing of the cocks,

And through the opening door that time unlocks

Feel the fresh breathing of To-morrow creep.

To-morrow! the mysterious, unknown guest,

Who cries to me: "Remember Barmecide,

And tremble to be happy with the
rest.'

And I make answer: "I am satisfied;
I dare not ask; I know not what is

best;

God hath already said what shall betide."

O STAR of morning and of liberty!

O bringer of the light, whose splendor shines

Above the darkness of the Apennines, Forerunner of the day that is to be! The voices of the city and the sea,

The voices of the mountains and the pines,

Repeat thy song, till the familiar lines Are footpaths for the thought of Italy! Thy fame is blown abroad from all the heights,

Through all the nations, and a sound is heard,

As of a mighty wind, and men devout, Strangers of Rome, and the new proselytes,

In their own language hear thy wondrous word,

And many are amazed and many doubt.

Derrière eux un Bordelais,
Gascon, s'il en fut jamais,
Parfumé de poésie
Riait, chantait, plein de vie,
"Bons amis,

J'ai soupé chez Agassiz!"

Avec ce beau cadet roux,
Bras dessus et bras dessous,
Mine altière et couleur terne,
Vint le Sire de Sauterne;
"Bons amis,
J'ai couché chez Agassiz!"

Mais le dernier de ces preux,
Etait un pauvre Chartreux,
Qui disait, d'un ton robuste,
"Bénédictions sur le Juste !
Bons amis
Bénissons Père Agassiz !"

They give me when they talk among themselves,

And think that no one listens ; what is that?

Jason. Antiochus Epimanes, my Lord! Ant. Antiochus the Mad! Ay, that is it.

And who hath said it? Who hath set in motion

That sorry jest?
Jason.
The Seven Sons insane
Of a weird woman, like themselves in-

sane.

Ant. I like their courage, but it shall not save them.

They shall be made to eat the flesh of swine,

Or they shall die. Where are they?
Jason.
In the dungeons

Beneath this tower.
Ant. There let them stay and starve,
Till I am ready to make Greeks of them,
After my fashion.

Jason. They shall stay and starve. My Lord, the Ambassadors of Samaria Await thy pleasure.

Ant. Why not my displeasure? Ambassadors are tedious. They are

men

Who work for their own ends, and not

for mine;

Ant. Approach. Come forward; not at the door

stand

Wagging your long beards, but demean yourselves

As doth become Ambassadors.

seek ye?

What

An Ambassador. An audience from the King.

Ant.
Speak, and be brief.
Waste not the time in useless rhetoric.
Words are not things.

Ambassador (reading). "To King
Antiochus,

The God, Epiphanes; a Memorial
From the Sidonians, who live at Sichem."
Ant. Sidonians?
Ambassador.

Ant.

Ay, my Lord. Go on, go on! And do not tire thyself and me with bowing!

Ambassador (reading). "We are a col

ony of Medes and Persians."
Ant. No, ye are Jews from one of the
Ten Tribes;

Whether Sidonians or Samaritans
Or Jews of Jewry, matters not to me;
Ye are all Israelites, ye are all Jews.
When the Jews prosper, ye claim kindred
with them;

When the Jews suffer, ye are Medes and
Persians:

I know that in the days of Alexander Ye claimed exemption from the annual

tribute

In the Sabbatic Year, because, ye said, Your fields had not been planted in that year.

Ambassador (reading). "Our fathers, upon certain frequent plagues, And following an ancient superstition,

them go

To Apollonius, my governor

There in Samaria, and not trouble me. What do they want?

day

Which by the Israelites is called the

Sabbath,

And in a temple on Mount Gerizim