And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride,
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.-BOYS AT PLAY.

N. P. WILLIS.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,
And my locks are not yet grey;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years,
And they say that I am old,

And my heart is ripe for the reaper Death,
And my years are well-nigh told.

It is very true, it is very true;

I am old, and "I bide my time;"

But my

heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of a daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing:
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call;
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go,

For the world is at best a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low:

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

STANZA S.

BISHOP HEBER.

Lo! the lilies of the field,
How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to Nature's lessons given
By the blessed birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy :

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow!

"Say, with richer crimson glows
The kingly mantle than the rose?
Say, have kings more wholesome fare
Than we poor citizens of air?

Barns nor hoarded grain have we,
Yet we carol merrily.

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow;
God provideth for the morrow.

"One there lives, whose guardian eye
Guides our humble destiny;

One there lives, who, Lord of all,
Keeps our feathers lest they fall:
Pass we blithely, then, the time,
Fearless of the snare and lime,

Free from doubt and faithless sorrow-
God provideth for the morrow."

THE WORLD A FLEETING SHOW.

THOMAS MOORE.

THIS world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!

And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of even,

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd from the tomb-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven, And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray, Serve but to light the troubled way— There's nothing calm but Heaven!

Play on, play on; I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of a daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing:
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call ;
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go,

For the world is at best a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low:

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,
To see the young so gay.

STANZA S.

BISHOP HEBER.

Lo! the lilies of the field,
How their leaves instruction yield!
Hark to Nature's lessons given
By the blessed birds of heaven!
Every bush and tufted tree
Warbles sweet philosophy:
"Mortal, fly from doubt ar
God provideth for the mo