vincible generals of the eternal city returned from their foreign conquests, with captive kings bound to their chariot wheels, and the spoils of nations in their train, followed by the stern and bearded warriors, and surrounded by the interminable multitudes of the seven-hilled city, shouting a fierce welcome home-what was such a triumph compared with that of La Fayette? Not a single city, but a whole nation rising as one man, and greeting him with an affectionate embrace! One single day of such spontaneous homage, were worth whole years of courtly adulation; one hour might well reward a man for a whole life of danger and of toil. Then, too, the joy with which he must have viewed the prosperity of the people for whom he had so deeply struggled? To behold the nation which he had left a little child, now grown up in the full proportions of lusty manhood! To see the tender sapling which he had left with hardly shade enough to cover its own roots, now waxing into the sturdy and unwedgeable oak, beneath whose grateful umbrage the oppressed of all nations find shelter and protection. That oak still grows on in its majestic strength, and wider and wider still extends its mighty branches. But the hand that watered and nourished it while yet a tender plant is now cold; and the heart that watched with strong affection its early growth has ceased to beat.

THE WOLVES.

Ye who listen to stories told,

TROWBRIDGE.

When hearths are cheery and nights are cold,
Of the lone wood-side, and the hungry pack
That howls on the fainting traveller's track,-
Flame-red eye balls that way lay,

By the wint'ry moon, the belated sleigh,-
The lost child sought in the dismal wood,
The little shoes and the stains of blood
On the trampled snow,-O ye that hear,
With thrills of pity, or chills of fear,

Wishing some angel had been sent
To shield the hapless and innocent,-
Know ye the fiend that is crueller far
Than the gaunt gray herds of the forest are?
Swiftly vanish the wild fleet tracks
Before the rifle and woodman's axe :
But hark to the coming of unseen feet,
Pattering by night through the city street!
Each wolf that dies in the woodland brown
Lives a spectre, and haunts the town.
By square and market they slink and prowl,
In lane and alley they leap and howl.
All night they snuff and snarl, before
The poor patched window and broken door.
They paw the clapboards and claw the latch,
At every crevice they whine and scratch.
Their tongues are subtle and long and thin,
And they lap the living blood within.
Icy keen are the teeth that tear,
Red as ruin the eyes that glare.
Children crouched in corners cold
Shiver in tattered garments old,
And start from sleep with bitter pangs
At the touch of the phantom's viewless fangs.
Weary the mother and worn with strife,

Still she watches and fights for life.

But her hand is feeble, and weapon small :
One little needle against them all!
In evil hour the daughter fled

From her poor shelter and wretched bed.
Through the city's pitiless solitude
To the door of sin the wolves pursued.
Fierce the father and grim with want,
His heart is gnawed by the spectres gaunt.
Frenzied stealing forth by night,
With whetted knife to the desperate fight,
He thought to smite the spectres dead,
But he smites his brother man instead.

O you that listen to stories told,

When hearths are cheery and nights are cold,
Weep no more at the tales you hear,

The danger is close, and the wolves are near.
Shudder not at the murderer's name,
Marvel not at the maiden's shame.
Pass not by with averted eye

The door where the stricken children cry.
But when the beat of the phantom feet
Sounds by night through the stormy street,
Follow thou where the spectres glide;
Stand like Hope by the mother's side;
And be thyself the angel sent

To shield the hapless and innocent.
He giveth little who gives but tears,

He giveth his best who aids and cheers.

He does well in the forest wild

Who slays the monster and saves the child;

But he does better, and merits more,

Who drives the wolf from the poor man's door.

Her hands were withered and shrunken,
Her form with age was bent;

They seemed twin spirits in look and tone-
Herself and the instrument

For the instrument, quaint and olden,

With its single tremulant strings,

Was little more than a spirit,

And its tone seemed a whirr of wings;

And she-the keen chisel of sorrow
And the cruel burin of care,
Had cut in her dear old features
Deep furrows here and there,

Till all that was gross and earthy

Had been chipped and smoothed away, And disclosed the patient angel

Behind its thin mask of clay.

She paused; and with upturned features
And reminiscent eyes

Was translated in one brief moment
Back to young life's paradise.

And the lovely spirit of childhood,
So trusting, and pure, and sweet,
Came back and glorified her

From beaming forehead to feet.

Then she swept the keys, and the music
Of vanished years leapt out;
Each note was a patter of merry feet

And a gleeful childish shout.

And fingers dimpled and rosy

Tripped o'er the enchanted keys, And the music was fresh as young laughter Or the warble of birds in the trees.

No strain from the old tone-masters
No burst of harmony grand,

Sprang from the old piano

At the touch of that magic hand.

But the simple airs of her girlhood
Rippled in melody sweet,

As in days when her sky was all sunshine,
And the hours were as happy as fleet;

And sparkled the light that vanished
From eyes long dried of tears,
And twinkled feet to her music

That have mouldered in dust for years.

And as we watched and listened,

She seemed to our moistened eyes
Already beyond the portals

That open toward the skies.

Nor seemed it longer a marvel

That when, in the morning gray,

The disciples came to the tomb of the Lord
To bear the body away,

They found but his cast off garment,

With its odor of aloes and myrrh,

And the stone rolled away from the open door
Of an empty sepulchre.

MAOLAINE'S CHILD.

ANONYMOUS.

"Maclaine! you've scourged me like a hound ;—
You should have struck me to the ground;
You should have played a chieftain's part;
You should have stabbed me to the heart.

"You should have crushed me into death;-
But here I swear with living breath,
That for this wrong which you have done,
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son,-

"On him, and you, and all your race!
He said, and bounding from his place,
He seized the child with sudden hold-
A smiling infant, three years old-