'He has past from us, the loved one; but he sleeps with them that died

By the Alma, at the winning of that terrible hill-side.' Yes, and in the days far onward, when we all are calmı as those,

Who beneath thy vines and willows on their hero-beds repose,

Thou on England's banners blazoned with the famous fields of old,

Shalt, where other fields are winning, wave above the brave and bold;

And our sons unborn shall nerve them for some great deed to be done,

By that twentieth of September, when the Alma's heights

were won.

Oh, thou river! dear for ever to the gallant, to the free,

Alma, roll thy waters proudly, proudly roll them to the

sea.

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.-J. R. Lowell.

THE snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails were softened to swan's down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,
As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, 'Father, who makes it snow?'
And I told of the good All-father
Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow,
Flake by flake, healing and hiding
The scar of our deep-plunged woe.
And again to the child I whispered,
'The snow that husheth all,
Darling, the merciful Father,
Alone can make it fall!'

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her ;
And she, kissing back, could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister,
Folded close under deepening snow.

THE TRUMPET.-Mrs. Hemans.

THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land-
Light up the beacon pyre!

A hundred hills have seen the brand,
And waved the sign of fire.

A hundred banners to the breeze

Their gorgeous folds have cast

And, hark! was that the sound of seas?
A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,

The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call

And rises from the earth.

The mother on her first-born son
Looks with a boding eye-

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceased his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en, for the marriage altar crowned,
The lover quits his bride.

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread !—
How will it be when kingdoms hear
'The blast that wakes the dead?

KING ROBERT OF SICILY.-Longfellow.

ROBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Apparelled in magnificent attire,

With retinue of many a night and squire,
On St. John's Eve, at vespers, proudly sat
And heard the priests chant the Magnificat.
And as he listened, o'er and o'er again
Repeated, like a burden or refrain,
He caught the words, 'Deposuit potentes
De sede, et exaltavit humiles;

And slowly lifting up his kingly head,

He to a learned clerk beside him said,

'What mean these words?' The clerk made answer

meet,

'He has put down the mighty from their seat,

And has exalted them of low degree.'

Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully,

"'Tis well that such seditious words are sung
Only by priests and in the Latin tongue;
For unto priests and people be it known,

There is no power can push me from my throne!*
And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep,
Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep.

When he awoke, it was already night;
The church was empty, and there was no light,

Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint,
Lighted a little space before some saint.
He started from his seat and gazed around,
But saw no living thing and heard no sound.
He groped towards the door, but it was locked;
He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked,
And uttered awful threatenings and complaints,
And imprecations upon men and saints.

The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls
As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls!
At length the sexton, hearing from without
The tumult of the knocking and the shout,
And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer,
Came with his lantern, asking, 'Who is there?'
Half-choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said,
'Open: 'tis I, the King! Art thou afraid?'
The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse,
'This is some drunken vagabond, or worse!'
Turned the great key and flung the portal wide;
A man rushed by him at a single stride,
Haggard, half-naked, without hat or cloak,
Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke,
But leaped into the blackness of the night,
And vanished like a spectre from his sight.

Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane
And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine,
Despoiled of his magnificent attire,

Bare-headed, breathless, and besprent with mire,
With sense of wrong and outrage desperate,
Strode on and thundered at the palace gate;

Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage
To right and left each seneschal and page,
And hurried up the broad and sounding stair,
His white face ghastly in the torches' glare.

From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed;
Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed,
Until at last he reached the banquet-room,
Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume.
There on the dais sat another king,

Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring,

D

King Robert's self in features, form, and height,
But all transfigured with angelic light!
It was an Angel; and his presence there
With a divine effulgence filled the air,
An exaltation, piercing the disguise,
Though none the hidden Angel recognise.

A moment speechless, motionless, amazed,
The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed,
Who met his looks of anger and surprise
With the divine compassion of his eyes;

Then said, 'Who art thou? and why com'st thou here?
To which King Robert answered, with a sneer,

'I am the King, and come to claim my own
From an impostor, who usurps my throne!'
And suddenly, at these audacious words,

Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords;
The Angel answered, with unruffled brow,

'Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester; thou
Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape,
And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape;
Thou shalt obey my servants when they call,
And wait upon my henchmen in the hall!'

Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers,
They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs;
A group of tittering pages ran before,

And as they opened wide the folding-door,

His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms,
The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms,
And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring
With the mock plaudits of 'Long live the King!'
Next morning, waking with the day's first beam,
He said within himself, 'It was a dream!'
But the straw rustled as he turned his head,
There were the cap and bells beside his bed,
Around him rose the bare, discoloured walls,
Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls,
And in the corner, a revolting shape,

Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape.
It was no dream; the world he loved so much
Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch!