So death flooded life, and o'erflowing its natural margin, Spread to a brackish lake, the silver stream of existence. Wealth had no power to bribe, nor beauty to charm, the

oppressor;

But all perished alike beneath the scourge of his angerOnly, alas! the poor, who had neither friends nor attendants.

"Day after day, in the gray of the dawn, as slow through the suburbs Plodded the German farmer, with flowers and fruit for the market, Met he that meek, pale face, returning home from its watchings."

Crept away to die in the almshouse, home of the homeless Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands

Now the city surrounds it; but still with its gateway and wicket

Meek, in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to

echo

Softly the words of the Lord—“The poor ye always have with you."

Thither, by night and by day, came the Sister of Mercy. The dying

Looked up into her face, and thought, indeed, to behold

there

Gleams of celestial light encircle her forehead with splendor, Such as the artist paints o'er the brows of saints and apostles,

Or such as hangs by night o'er a city seen at a distance. Unto their eyes it seemed the lamps of the city celestial, Into whose shining gates ere long their spirits would enter.

Thus, on a Sabbath morn, through the streets, deserted and silent,

Wending her quiet way, she entered the door of the almshouse.

Sweet on the summer air was the odor of flowers in the

garden;

And she paused on her way to gather the fairest among

them,

That the dying once more might rejoice in their fragrance and beauty.

Then, as she mounted the stairs to the corridors, cooled by the east wind,

Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church,

While, intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted

Sounds of psalms, that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco.

Soft as descending wings fell the calm of the hour on her spirit;

Something within her said-"At length thy trials are

ended;"

And, with a light in her looks, she entered the chambers of sickness.

Noiselessly moved about the assiduous, careful attendants, Moistening the feverish lip, and the aching brow, and in

silence

Closing the sightless eyes of the dead, and concealing their

faces,

Where on their pallets they lay, like drifts of snow by the roadside.

Many a languid head, upraised as Evangeline entered, Turned on its pillow of pain to gaze while she passed, for

her presence

Fell on their hearts like a ray of the sun on the walls of a

prison.

And, as she looked around, she saw how Death, the con

soler,

Laying his hand upon many a heart, had healed it for ever Many, familiar forms had disappeared in the night-time; Vacant their places were, or filled already by strangers.

"Through the hush that succeeded

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like,
'Gabriel! O my beloved!' and died away into silence."

Suddenly, as if arrested by fear or a feeling of wonder, Still she stood, with her colorless lips apart, while a

shudder

Ran through her frame, and, forgotten, the flowerets

dropped from her fingers,

And from her eyes and cheeks the light and bloom of the morning.

Then there escaped from her lips a cry of such terrible anguish,

That the dying heard it, and started up from their pillows.

On the pallet before her was stretched the form of an old

man.

Long, and thin, and gray were the locks that shaded his

temples;

But, as he lay in the morning light, his face for a moment Seemed to assume once more the forms of its earlier

manhood;

So are wont to be changed the faces of those who are

dying.

Hot and red on his lips still burned the flush of the fever, As if life, like the Hebrew, with blood had besprinkled its

portals,

That the Angel of Death might see the sign, and pass over, Motionless, senseless, dying, he lay, and his spirit ex

hausted

Seemed to be sinking down to infinite depths in the dark

ness,

Darkness of slumber and death, for ever sinking and

sinking.

Then through those realms of shade, in multiplied reverb. erations,

Heard he that cry of pain, and through the hush that succeeded

Whispered a gentle voice, in accents tender and saint-like, "Gabriel! O my beloved!" and died away into silence. Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood;

Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under

their shadow,

As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his

eyelids,

Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside.

Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered

Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken.

Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside

him,

Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into

darkness,

As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a case

ment.

All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing, All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom,

Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, “Father, I thank thee!"

"Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping,
Under the humble walls of the little Catholic churchyard,
In the heart of the city."

shadow,

Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are

sleeping.

Under the humble walls of the little Catholic church

yard,

In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed, Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them, Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest

and for ever,