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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, Toryzred 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 toneCurses 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, Smiling and calın 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. l'ouring 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 darknens a wild, despairing cry Rang, as the riven castle lighted the midnight sky;

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

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Over the Norman landscape the summer sun looks down,
Gilling the gray cathedral, gilding the teeming town.
Sill 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

beaven; 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 east ward, 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 the student at midnight, alone,

Who pores over history's page,
It breathes in a mystical tone

The wisdom of prophet and sage:-
It evokes from the centuries flown,

The echoes of deed and of thought;
Whatever of science was known,
Whatever philosophy taught.

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 be cobbled shoes for his scanty gold. Sometimes he sighed for a larger store

Wherewith to bless the wandering poor;
For he was not wise in worldly lore,
The poor were Christ's, he knew no more.
'Twas very little that Ben could do,
But he pegged his prayers in many a shoe,
And only himself and the dear Lord knew.
Meanwhile he must cobble with all his might
Till--the Lord knew when-it would all be right,
For he worked by faith, and not by sight.
One night a cry from the window came-
Ben Hazzard was sleepy and tired and lame-
"Ben Hazzard, open,” it seemed to say,
“Give shelter and food, I humbly pray.”
Ben Hazzard lifted his woolly head
To listen. “ 'Tis awful cold,” he said,
And his old bones shook in his ragged bed,

But the wanderer must be comforted."
Out from his straw he painfully crept,
And over the frosty foor he stept,
While under the door the snow-wreaths swept.

Come in, in the name of the Lord,” he cried,
As he opened the door, and held it wide.
A milk-white kitten was all he spied ;
Trembling and crying there at his feet,
Ready to die in the bitter sleet.
Ben Hazzard, amazed, stared up and down;
The candles were out in all the town;
The stout house-doors were carefully shut,
Safe bolted were all but old Ben's hut.

I thought that somebody called,” he said;
"Some dream or other got into my head;
Come then, poor pussy, and share my bed.”
But first he sought for a rusty cup,
And gave his guest a generous sup,
Then out from the storm, the wind, and the sleet,
Puss joyfully lay at old Ben's feet.
Truly, it was a terrible storm,
Ben feared he should nevermore be warm.
But just as he began to be dozy,
And puss was purring soft and cozy,
A voice called faintly before his door:
“ Ben Hazzard, Ben Hazzard, help, I implore!
Give drink, and a crust from out your store.”
Ben Hazzard opened his sleepy eyes,
Aud his full-moon face showed great surprise.
Out from his bed he stumbled again,
Teeth chattering with neuralgic pain,
Caught at the door in the frozen rain.
“Come in, in the name of the Lord,” he said,

With such as I have, thou shalt be fed.”

Only a little black dog he saw
Whining and shaking a broken paw.
“Well, well,” cried Ben Hazzard, “I must have dreamed,
But verily like a voice it seemed.
Poor creature,” he added, with husky tone,
His feet so cold they seemed like stone,
“ Thou shalt have the whole of my marrow bone."
He went to the cupboard, and took from the shelf
The bone he had saved for his very self.
Then, after binding the broken paw,
Half dead with cold, went back to his straw:
Under the ancient blue bed-quilt he crept;
His conscience was white, again he slept ;
But again a voice called, both loud and clear:

Ben Hazzard, for Christ's sweet sake, come here !"
Once more he stood at the open door,
And looked abroad, as he looked before,
This time full sure 'twas a voice he heard ;
But all that he saw was a storm-tossed bird,
With weary pinion and beaten crest,
And a red blood-stain on his snowy breast.
“Come in, in the name of the Lord,” he said,
Tenderly raising the drooping head,
And tearing his tattered robe apart,
Laid the cold bird on his own warm heart.
The sunrise flashed on the snowy thatch,
As an angel lifted the wooden latch;
Ben woke in a flood of golden light,
And knew the voice that had called all night.
and steadfastly gazing, without a word,
Beheld the messenger from the Lord.
He said to Ben, with a wondrous smile,
The three guests sleeping all the while,
“Thrice happy is he that blesseth the poor;
The humblest creatures that sought thy door,
For Christ's sweet sake thou hast comforted.”
“Nay, 'twas not much,” Ben humbly said,
With a rueful shake of his old gray head.
“Who giveth all of his scanty store
In Christ's dear name, can do no more.
Behold, the Master who waiteth for thee,
Saith: 'Giving to them, thou hast given to me.”
Then, with Heaven's light white on his face, “Amen,
I come in the name of the Lord,” said Ben.
“Frozen to death,” the watchman said,
When at last he found him in his bed,
With a smile on his face so strange and bright,
He wondered what old Ben saw that night.
Ben's lips were silent, and never told,
He had gone up higher to find his gold.

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