Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day;
And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say,
"Passing away! passing away!"

While yet I looked, what a change there came!
Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan:
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame,
Yet just as busily swung she on;

The garland beneath her had fallen to dust;
The wheels above were eaten with rust;
The hands, that over the dial swept,

Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept,
And still there came that silver tone

From the shriveled lips of the toothless crone,—
(Let me never forget till my dying day
The tone or the burden of her lay!)
"Passing away! passing away!"

Ex. XXVIII.-THE COMET.

THE Comet! He is on his way,
And singing as he flies;

The whizzing planets shrink before
The specter of the skies;

Ah! well may regal orbs burn blue,
And satellites turn pale,

Ten million cubic miles of head,
Ten billion leagues of tail!

On, on, by whistling spheres of light,
He flashes and he flames;
He turns not to the left or right,

He asks them not their names;
One spurn from his demoniac heel,—
Away, away they fly,

Where darkness might be bottled up,
And sold for "Tyrian dye."

And what would happen to the land,
And how would look the
sea,

If in the bearded demon's path
Our earth should chance to be!

0. W. HOLMES.

Full hot and high the sea would boil,
Full red the forests gleam;
Methought I saw and heard it all
In a dyspeptic dream!

I saw a tutor take his tube

The comet's course to spy;
I heard a scream,-the gathered rays
Had struck the tutor's eye;

I saw a fort, the soldiers all

Were armed with goggles green; Pop cracked the guns!, whiz flew the balls! Bang went the magazine!

I saw a poet dip his scroll

Each moment in a tub,

I read upon the warping back,

"The Dream of Beelzebub ;" He could not see his verses burn, Although his brain was fried, And ever and anon he bent

And wet them as they dried.

I saw the scalding pitch roll down
The crackling, sweating pines;
And streams of smoke, like water-spouts,
Burst through the rumbling mines;
I asked the firemen why they made
Such noise about the town;

They answered not,-but all the while
The brakes went up and down.

I saw a roasting pullet sit
Upon a baking egg;

I saw a cripple scorch his hand
Extinguishing his leg;

I saw nine geese upon the wing
Towards the frozen pole,
And every mother's gosling fell,
Crisped to a crackling coal.

I saw huge fishes, boiled to rags,
Bob through the bubbling brine;

And thoughts of supper crossed my soul:
I had been rash at mine.

Strange sights! strange sounds! O fearful dream!
Its memory haunts me still:

The steaming sea, the crimson glare,
That wreathed each wooded hill;
Stranger! if through thy reeling brain
Such midnight visions sweep,

Spare, spare, O spare thine evening meal,
And sweet shall be thy sleep!

Ex. XXIX.-BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

MRS. NORTON.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,-
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of wo-

man's tears;

But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed

away,

And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said: "I never more shall see my own, my native

land;

Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,—at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,

To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was ⚫ done,

Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying, were some grown old in

wars,

The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many

scars;

But some were young,-and suddenly beheld life's morn de

cline,

And one had come from Bingen,-fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage: For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child,

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;

And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would-but kept my father's sword;

And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage-wall at Bingen,-calm Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die.
And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;

And to hang the old sword in its place, (my father's sword and mine,)

For the honor of old Bingen,-dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another-not a sister;-in the happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye;

Too innocent for coquetry,-too fond for idle scorning ;-
Oh! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heav-
iest mourning!

Tell her the last night of my life--(for ere this moon be risen
My body will be out of pain-my soul be out of prison,)
I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight

shine,

On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along--I heard, or seemed to hear,

The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear;
And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,
That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and

still;

And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk;

And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,

But we'll meet no more at Bingen,---loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His voice grew faint and hoarser, his grasp was childish weak,

His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak:

His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,--
The 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!

Ex. XXX.-NEW ENGLAND.

ANON.

THE hills of New England-how proudly they rise,
In the wildness of grandeur, to blend with the skies!
With their fair azure outline, and tall, ancient trees,
New England, my country, I love thee for these!

The vales of New England, that cradle her streams—
That smile in their greenness, like land in our dreams;
All sunny with pleasure, embosomed in ease-
New England, my country, I love thee for these!

The woods of New England, still verdant and high,
Though rocked by the tempests of ages gone by ;
Romance dims their arches, and speaks in the breeze-
New England, my country, I love thee for these!
The streams of New England, that roar as they go,
Or seem in their stillness but dreaming to flow;
O bright gilds the sunbeam their march to the seas-
New England, my country, I love thee for these!