the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied-the living dead, in many shapes and forms,-to see the closing of that early grave.

13. Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly-fallen snow that covered it-whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch where she had sat, when Heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade.

14. They carried her to one old nook, where she had, many and many a time, sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the colored windōw-a window where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave.

15. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath; many a stifled sob was heard. Some, and they were not a few, knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave, before the stone should be replaced.

16. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that věry spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing, with a pensive face, upon the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold; how she had never feared to enter the church alone, at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet; and even to climb the tower-stair, with no more light than that of the moon-rays stealing through the loop-holes in the thick old walls. A whisper went about among the oldest there, that she had seen and talked with angels; and, when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so, indeed.

17. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared, in time, of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place: when the bright moon poured in her

light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and, most of all, it seemed to them, upon her quiet grave; in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God.

CHARLES DICKENS.

166. THE ALPINE SHEEP.

1. WHEN on my ear your loss was knell'd,'

And tender sympathy upburst,

A little spring from memory well'd,

Which once had quench'd my bitter thirst;3
And I was fain to bear to you

A portion of its mild relief,

That it might be a healing dew,

To steal some fever from your grief.

2. After our child's untroubled breath
Up to the Father took its way,
And on our home the shade of Death,
Like a long twilight haunting lay,
And friends came round, with us to weep
Her little spirit's swift remove,
The story of the Alpine sheep
Was told to us by one we love.

3. They, in the valley's sheltering care,

6

Soon crop the meadows' tender prime,
And when the sod grows brown and bare,'
The Shepherd strives to make them climb

To airy shelves of pasture green,

That hang along the mountain's side,

10

Where grass and flowers together lean,

And down through mist the sunbeams slide.

Upburst

1 Knelled (nåld), tolled by a bell; struck as on a bell. (up bêrst'). Thirst (thorst).- Bear (bår).- After (åft' er). — Cåre.T Båre.- - Airy (år' e).— Pasture (påst' yer).- Gråss

10

4. But naught can tempt the timid things
The steep and rugged path' to try,
Though sweet the shepherd calls and sings,
And sear'd' below the pastures lie,
Till in his arms his lambs he takes,
Along the dizzy verge3 to go,

Then, heedless of the rifts and breaks,
They follow on o'er rock and snow
5. And in those pastures, lifted fair,*

More dewy-soft than lowland mead,
The shepherd drops his tender care,

And sheep and lambs together feed.
This parable, by Nature breathed,

Blew on me as the south-wind free
O'er frozen brooks, that flow unsheathed
From icy thralldom' to the sea.

8. A blissful vision through the night
Would all my happy senses sway
Of the Good Shepherd on the height,
Or climbing up the starry way,
Holding our little lamb asleep,
While, like the murmur' of the sea,
Sounded that voice along the deep,
Saying, "Arise, and follow me."

MARIA LOWELL.

Påth.

Seared, dry; burnt.- Verge (vårj), border; edge.—♦ Fair (får).— Thrall' dom, bondage; confinement.-• Vision (viz' un), something imagined to be seen, but not real.-' Murmur (mår' mer), a low, continued or frequently repeated sound.

2. What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart, to be unmoved;

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep;
The senate's shout to patriot vows;
The monarch's crown to light the brows!
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

8. What do we give to our beloved!
A little faith, all undisproved;
A little dust, to over weep;
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake?
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

4. "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away

Sad dust that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
"He giveth His beloved, sleep."

6. His dews drop mutely on the hill;
His cloud above it resteth still,

Though on its slope men toil and reap!
More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,

"He giveth His beloved, sleep!"

"Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it: except the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep." (Psalm cxxvii. 1, 2.)--2 Dèlv' ed dug out of the earth.

7. Yea! men may wonder when they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,

In such a rest his heart to keep;
But angels say-and through the word
I ween' their blessed smile is heard-
"He giveth His beloved, sleep!"

8. For me, my heart, that erst2 did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the juggler's' leap,
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose,

"Who giveth His beloved, sleep!"

9. And friends! dear friends! when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,

And round my bier ye come to weep,—

Let one, most loving of you all,

Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall

HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED, SLEEP!"

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

168. A. SISTER PLEADING FOR A CONDEMNED BROTHER Isabella. I am a woful suitor to your honor;

Please but your honor hear me.

Angelo.
Well; what's your suit?
Isab. There is a vice that most I do abhor,
And most desire should meet the blow of justice,
For which I would not plead, but that I must.

Ang. Well; the matter?

Isab. I have a brother is condemn'd to die;

I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

And not my brother.

Ang. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?

Why, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done;

2

1 Ween, think; fancy; imagine.-- Erst, at first; formerly; till now. ----3 Jåg' gler, a cheat; a deceiver; one who practices or exhibits sleight of hand tricks.