Still sweep with their embattled lines And though the hills of Death The marshalled brotherhood of souls Upward, for ever upward, I see their march sublime, And long let me remember, A bright and blazing sun. NAPOLEON'S EXILE. MRS. BROWNING. NAPOLEON! 'twas a high name lifted high! The kings crept out-the peoples sat at home, A pall embroidered with worn images Of rights divine, too scant to cover doom Such as they suffered,-cursed the corn that grew A deep gloom centered in the deep repose― O wild St. Helen! very still she kept him, A little more, if pilgrims overwept him Nay! not so long!-France kept her old affection, She cried, "Behold, thou England! I would have And England answered in the courtesy Which, ancient foes turned lovers, may befit,— Because it was not well, it was not well, To bind and bare, and vex with vulture fell. I would, my noble England, men might seek SOUTHERN AUTUMN. WM. H. TIMROD. SLEEPS the soft South-nursing its delicate breath, Seems softly blent in one delicious hour, Where sorrows, such as earth owns, had no power To veil the changeless lustre of the skies, And mind and matter formed one paradise. Y EVENING IN WINTER. ROBED like an abbess the snowy earth lies, While the red sundown fades out of the skies. Up walks the evening veiled like a nun, Telling her starry beads one by one. Where like the billows the shadowy hills lie, T. B. READ Like a mast the great pine swings against the bright sky. Down in the valley the distant lights quiver, When o'er the hilltops the moon pours her ray, Whirling and gliding, like summer-clouds fleet, The icicles hang on the front of the falls, Horns that the wild huntsman spring shall awake, TO TIME, "THE OLD TRAVELLER." THEY slander thee, old Traveller, Who say that thy delight Is to scatter ruin far and wide, Thou passest o'er the battle-field Where the dead lie stiff and stark, WM. H. TIMROD Where nought is heard save the vulture's scream, But thou hast caused the grain to spring From the blood-enrichèd clay, |