His voice grew faint and hoarser-his grasp was childish weak— His eyes put on a dying look-he sigh'd and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fledThe soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land-was dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,

As it shone on distant Bingen-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

WANTED, A MINISTER'S WIFE.

AT length we have settled a pastor:
I am sure I cannot tell why
The people should grow so restless,
Or candidates grow so shy;

But after a two years' searching

For the "smartest" man in the land,

In a fit of desperation

We took the nearest at hand.

And really, he answers nicely

To fill up the gap," you know;

To "run the machine," and "bring up arrears,"
And make things generally go;.

He has a few little failings,

His sermons are common-place quite,

But his manner is very charming,

And his teeth are perfectly white.

And so, of all the "dear people,"
Not one in a hundred complains,
For beauty and grace of manner

Are so much better than brains.
But the parish have all concluded
He needs a partner for life,

To shine a gem in the parlor:

"Wanted, a minister's wife!"

Wanted, a perfect lady,

Delicate, gentle, refined,
With every beauty of person,
And every endowment of mind;
Fitted by early culture

To move in fashionable lifePlease notice our advertisement: "Wanted, a minister's wife!"

Wanted, a thoroughbred worker,
Who well to her household looks;
(Shall we see our money wasted
By extravagant Irish cooks?)
Who cuts the daily expenses

With economy sharp as a knife; And washes and scrubs in the kitchen • "Wanted, a minister's wife!"

A very "domestic person,"

To callers she must not be "out,"

It has such a bad appearance

For her to be gadding about:

Only to visit the parish

Every year of her life,

And attend the funerals and weddings: "Wanted, a minister's wife!"

To conduct the "ladies' meeting,"
The "sewing circle" attend;
And when we work for the soldiers,
Her ready assistance to lend.
To clothe the destitute children
When sorrow and want are rife,
And look up Sunday-school scholars :
"Wanted, a minister's wife!"

And when we have found the person,
We hope, by working the two,
To lift our debt, and build a new church,
Then we shall know what to do;
For they will be worn and weary,
And we'll advertise: "Wanted,
A minister and his wife!"

THROUGH DEATH TO LIFE.-HARbaugh,

HAVE you heard the tale of the Aloe plant,

Away in the sunny clime?

By humble growth of a hundred years
It reaches its blooming time;
And then a wondrous bud at its crown

Breaks into a thousand flowers ;

This floral queen, in its blooming seen,

Is the pride of the tropical bowers.
But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice,
For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies.

Have you further heard of this Aloe plant

That grows in the sunny clime,

How every one of its thousand flowers,
As they drop in the blooming time,
Is an infant plant that fastens its roots

In the place where it falls on the ground;
And, fast as they drop from the dying stem,
Grow lively and lovely around?

By dying it liveth a thousandfold

In the young that spring from the death of the old.

Have you heard the tale of the Pelican,

The Arab's Gimel el Bahr,

That lives in the African solitudes,

Where the birds that live lonely are?
Have heard how it loves its tender young,

you

And cares and toils for their good?

It brings them water from fountains afar,

And fishes the seas for their food.

In famine it feeds them-what love can devise!The blood of its bosom, and feeding them dies.

Have you heard the tale they tell of the Swan,
The snow-white bird of the lake?

It noiselessly floats on the silvery wave,
It silently sits in the brake;

For it saves its song till the end of life,
And then, in the soft, still even,

'Mid the golden light of the setting sun,

It sings as it soars into heaven!

And the blessed notes fall back from the skies; 'Tis its only song, for in singing it dies.

You have heard these tales; shall I tell you one
A greater and better than all?

Have you heard of Him whom the heavens adore,
Before whom the hosts of them fall?

How He left the choirs and anthems above,
For earth in its wailings and woes,
To suffer the shame and pain of the cross,
And die for the life of His foes?

O prince of the noble! O sufferer divine!
What sorrow and sacrifice equal to Thine!

THE SLEEPING SENTINEL.-JANVIER.

'TWAS in the sultry summer-time, as War's red records show, When patriot armies rose to meet a fratricidal foe—

When, from the North and East and West, like the upheaving

sea,

Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free.

Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veiled decay—
In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay:
Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish
breath,

He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death.

Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care,
He roamed at will, and freely drew his native mountain air—
Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a wood-
land fout,

And waving elms, and grassy slopes, give beauty to Vermont!

Where, dwelling in an humble cot, a tiller of the soil,
Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's toil—
Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering country's cry
Fired his young heart with fervent zeal for her to live or die.