The bees go humming the whole day long, and the first June rose has blown;

And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day-too old to be left alone. Oh, heart of love, so still and cold! Oh, precious lips, so

white!

For the first sad hours in sixty years you were out of my reach last night!

You've cut the flower. You're very kind! She rooted it last May.

It was only a slip. I pulled the rose, and threw the stem

away.

But she, sweet thrifty soul, bent down, and planted it where she stood.

"Dear, maybe the flowers are living," she said, "asleep in this bit of wood."

I can't rest, deary-I cannot rest, let the old man have his will,

And wander from porch to garden post; the house is so deathly still.

Wander and long for a sight of the gate she has left ajar for me.

We had got so used to each other, dear-so used to each other, you see.

Sixty years, and so wise and good! She made me a better

man

From the moment I kissed her fair young face, and our lover's life began.

And seven fine boys she has given me, and out of the seven

not one

But the noblest father in all the land would be proud to call

him son.

Oh, well, dear Lord, I'll be patient! but I feel sore broken up. At eighty years its an awesome thing to drain such a bitter

cup!

I know there's Joseph, and John, and Hal, and four good

men beside;

But a hundred sons couldn't be to me like the woman I

My little Polly, so bright and fair-so winsome, and good, and sweet!

She had roses twined in her sunny hair-white shoes on her dainty feet;

And I held her hand-was it yesterday that we stood up to be wed?

And no, I remember; I'm eighty to-day, and my dear wife Polly is dead!

A. R.

A DREAM.

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;

I went to the window to see the sight;

All the Dead that ever I knew
Going one by one and two by two.

On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;
Townsfellows all, from first to last;
Born in the moonlight of the lane,
Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.

Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd
At soldiers once-but now more staid:
Those were the strangest sights to me

Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.

Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak too;
Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;
Some but a day in their churchyard bed;
Some that I had not known were dead.

A long, long crowd-where each seem'd lonely,
Yet of them all there was one, one only,
Raised a head, or looked my way;
She linger'd a moment-she might not stay.

How long since I saw that fair pale face!
Ah, Mother dear, might I only place

My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,
While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!

On, on, a moving bridge they made

Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,
Young and old, women and men;

Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.

And first there came a bitter laughter;
A sound of tears the moment after;
And then a music so lofty and gay,
That every morning, day by day,
I strive to recall if I may.

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

[By kind permission of the author.]

SHERIDAN'S RIDE.

Up from the South at break of day,
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay,
The affrighted air with a shudder bore,
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door,

The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar,
Telling the battle was on once more,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.
And wider still those billows of war
Thundered along the horizon's bar;
And louder yet into Winchester rolled
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled,
Making the blood of the listener cold,
As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray,
And Sheridan twenty miles away.

But there is a road from Winchester town,
A good broad highway leading down;

And there, through the flash of the morning light,
A steed as black as the steeds of night
Was seen to pass as with eagle flight,
As if he knew the terrible need;

He stretched away with his utmost speed;
Hills rose and fell; but his heart was gay,
With Sheridan fifteen miles away.

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South,
The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth;
Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster,
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster.

The heart of the steed and the heart of the master
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls,
Impatient to be where the battle-field calls;

Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play,
With Sheridan only ten miles away.

Under his spurning feet the road

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed,

And the landscape sped away behind,

Like an ocean flying before the wind,

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire,
Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire.
But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire;

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray,
With Sheridan only five miles away.

The first that the General saw were the groups

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops;

What was done? what to do? a glance told him both,
Then striking his spurs, with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas,
And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because
The sight of the master compelled it to pause.
With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play,
He seemed to the whole great army to say,
"I have brought you Sheridan all the way
From Winchester, down to save the day."
Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan!

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man!
And when their statues are placed on high
Under the dome of the Union sky,
The American soldiers' Temple of Fame,
There with the glorious General's name
Be it said in letters both bold and bright :
"Here is the steed that saved the day
By carrying Sheridan into the fight,
From Winchester-twenty miles away!"

T. B. REED.

THE OUTLAW.

Tis morn; and on the mountain top the outlaw rested now, And laid his good sword by his side-his bonnet from his

brow.

Upon the lofty towers that rise o'er his ancestral hall,

From far the weary wanderer gazed, while tears like raindrops fall.