But when he recovered his teeth and sense
He borrowed a hammer and fixed the fence,
And endeavored with meekness to explain
His late remark, which was cut in twain
By the fall of the fence and his sad refrain;
No man could say he ever swore!

He was only speaking of hellebore,

A drug she could buy at what's-his-name's store,
To kill the bugs which her bushes bore.

I I cannot tell all that the deacon said,

But he started for home with an aching head,
And a heavy heart that could not rest;

For a guilty feeling was in his breast

Which he couldn't get out, though he tried his best.
And the widow, she was ill at ease,

In spite of the deacon's apologies.

She left the garden, went up the stair,
Threw herself into her rocking chair,

And rocked and rocked till the soothing balm
Of the breeze and the sunshine made her calm.
Then she searched the scriptures to find a text
That would somewhat ease her mind perplext;
For her righteous soul was sorely vext,

And she wondered, “Whatever will happen next!"
And she thinks to this day, as I've heard her say,
Brown shouldn't have spoken in just that way.
But as for myself, I question whether,

If he'd just put his syllables nearer together,

There had been the least trouble or scandal-but then,
Such mistakes will occur with the wisest of men.

In viewing such things with our moral eyes,

There's a tendency, always, to moralize;

And this is the moral I offer for all:

When you think you are standing take heed lest you fall!

THE LAST BANQUET.-EDWARD RENAUD.

The incident narrated in this poem is based on fact, a tragedy of the kind being reported to have occurred, during the French Revolution in 1793, in the north of France.

Gitaut, the Norman marquis, sat in his banquet hall,
When the shafts of the autumn sunshine gilded the castle wall;
While in thro' the open windows floated the sweet perfume,
Borne in from the stately garden and filling the lofty room;
And still, like a strain of music breathed in an undertone,
The ripple of running water rose, with its sob and moan,
From the river, swift and narrow, far down in the vale below,
That shone like a silver arrow shot from a bended bow.

до

Yonder, over the poplars, lapped in the mellow haze,
Lay the roofs of the teeming city, red in the noonday blaze;
While ever, in muffled music, the tall cathedral towers
Told to the panting people the story of the hours.

His was a cruel temper; under his baneful sway,
Peasant and maid and matron fled from his headlong way,
When down from his rocky eyrie, spurring his foaming steed,
Galloped the haughty noble, ripe for some evil deed.

But when the surging thousands, bleeding at every pore,
Roused by the wrongs of ages, rose with a mighty roar-
Ever the streets of cities rang with a voice long mute;
Gibbet and tree and lanterne bearing their bleeding fruit.
Only one touch of feeling-hid from the world apart,
Locked with the key of silence-lived in that cruel heart;
For one he had loved and worshiped, dead in the days of yore
Now slept in the lonely chapel, hard by the river shore.

High on a painted panel, set in a gilded shrine, Shone her benignant features, lit with a smile divine; Under the high, straight forehead, eyes of the brightest blue, Framed in her hair's bright masses, rivaled the sapphire's hue. "Why do you come, Breconi?”—“" Marquis, you did not call; But Mignonne is waiting yonder, down by the castle wall." "Bid her begone!"-" But master-poor child, she loves you so! And, broken with bitter weeping, she told me a tale of woe. "She says there is wild work yonder, there in the hated town, Where the crowd of frenzied people are shooting the nobles down;

And to-night, ere the moon has risen, they come, with burning brand,

With the flame of the blazing castle to light the lurid land.

"But first you must spread the banquet-host for the crew abhorred-

Ere out from the topmost turret they fling my murdered lord. Flee for thy life, Lord Marquis, flee from a frightful doom, When the night has hid the postern safe in its friendly gloom!" "Tush! are you mad, Breconi? spread them the banquet here, With flowers and fruits and viands, silver and crystal clear; Let not a touch be wanting-hasten those hands of thine! Haste to the task, Breconi-and I will draw the wine!"

Slowly the sun went westward, till all the city's spires Flamed in the flood of splendor-a hundred flickering fires. Over the peaceful landscape, clasped by the girdling stream, Quivered, in mournful glory, the last expiring beam.

Then up from the rippling river sounded the tramp of feet, That rose o'er the solemn stillness laden with perfume sweet; While high o'er the sleeping city, and over the garden gloom, Towered the grim, black castle, still as the silent tomb.

Leaning over the casement, heark'ning the busy hum,
Smiling, the haughty marquis knew that his time was come:
And he turned to the paneled picture--that answered his
look again,

And beamed with a sigh of welcome-humming a low refrain.
Under the echoing archway, and up o'er the stairs of stone,
Ever the human torrent shouted in strident tone-
Curses and gibes and threat'nings, with snatches of ribald jest,
Stirring the blood to fury in many a brutal breast.

There, under the lighted tapers set in the banquet-hall,
Siniling and calm and steadfast, towered the marquis tall.
Dressed in his richest costume, facing the gibing host,
He wore on his broad blue ribbon the star of "The Holy
Ghost."

"Welcome, fair guests-be seated!" he cried to the motley crowd,

That drew to the loaded table with curses long and loud;
Waving a graceful welcome, the gleaming lights reveal
The rings on his soft, white fingers, strung with their nerves
of steel.

Turned to the paneled picture, calm in his icy hate,

He stood, in his pride of lineage, cold as a marble Fate; Smiling in hidden meaning--in his rich garments dressedAs cold and hard and polished as the brilliants on his breast.

Pouring a brimming beaker, he cried, " Drink, friends, I pray! Drink to the toast I give you! Pledge me my proudest day! Here, under the hall of banquet-drink, drink to the festal

news!

Stand twenty casks of powder, set with a lighted fuse!"

Frozen with sudden horror, they saw, like a fleecy mist,
As he quaffed the purple vintage, the ruffles at his wrist.
Turned to the smiling picture, clear as a silver bell
Echoed his last fond greeting-"I drink to thee, ma belle!"
Down crashed the crystal goblet, flung on the marble floor;
Back rushed the stricken revelers-back to the close-barred
door;

Up through its yawning crater the mighty earthquake broke,
Dashing its spume of fire up through its waves of smoke!
Out through the deep'ning darkness a wild, despairing cry
Rang, as the riven castle lighted the midnight sky;

Then down o'er the lurid landscape, lit by those fires of hellButtress and roof and rafter-the smoking ruin fell!

Over the Norman landscape the summer sun looks down,
Gilding the gray cathedral, gilding the teeming town.
Still shines the rippling river, lapped in its banks of green;
Still hangs the scent of roses over the peaceful scene;

But high o'er the trembling poplars, blackened and burned and riven,

Those blasted battlements and towers frown in the face of heaven;

And still in the sultry August I seem at times to feel
The smile of that cruel marquis, keen as his rapier's steel!
-Appleton's Journal.

SONG OF THE TYPE.

Click, click, click,

List to the song of the type;

Now breathing as soft and as light

As a sigh from the heart's first emotion;
Now swelling in grandeur and might,

As billows that roll on the ocean.

Far-reaching, eternal, its tones

From the clime where the ice-mountains shine

Are borne over earth's ample zones

To the land of the myrtle and vine.

Click, click, click,

List to the song of the type;-
To the nations down-trodden, oppressed,
It speaks with the voice of a God
Of the wrongs of the people redressed,
Of King-craft hurled down to the sod,
Of the dawn of that on-coming day
When right over might shall prevail,
When sceptre and crown shall decay,
And the strength of the tyrant shall fail.

Click, click, click,

List to the song of the type;—

Far eastward, a message it bears

To the heathen that wander in gloom,
Glad tidings of peace it declares,

It utters idolatry's doom.

"Tis echoed in anthems divine

From mountain, and valley, and plain;
'Tis the herald triumphant, benign,
Of humanity's wide-spreading reign.

Click, click, click,

List to the song of the type;~
To him who is fated to roam
Alone on a far foreign strand,
How sweet are its tidings of home,
Its words from his dear native land!
The captives for liberty's sake

Repining in dungeon and chains,
At its faintest heard accents awake,
And gather new hope from its strains.
Click, click, click,

List to the song of the type;-—
The trumpet-toned voice of the press,
With justice and mercy shall blend,
Wherever there's wrong to redress,
Wherever there 's right to defend.
The strong may contend for a name

Which the future may wrest from their gripe,
That future shall yield them no fame,
Except through the click of the type.
Click, click, click,

List to the song of the type ;

The arch of the press is the bow
Of promise to nations unborn,
Its lustre no dimness shall know,
Its beauty no cloud shall deform.
Serene, and majestic, its span

Shall reach and encircle each shore,
A symbol and token to man,

The deluge of darkness is o'er.

BEN HAZZARD'S GUESTS.-ANNA P. MARSHALL.

Ben Hazzard's hut was smoky and cold,

Ben Hazzard, half blind, was black and old,
And he cobbled shoes for his scanty gold.

Sometimes he sighed for a larger store