As there by a pallet, whereon appears
The wasted form of his wife, he bends.
He holds her hand-like a man he strives
To choke the sobs from her dying ear;
While before his fancy their wretched lives
Unroll their length like a desert sere.
And she, poor soul! while his faithful hand
She presses in token of love and pride,
How the dying eyes for a space expand

As the roar comes in from the ring outside!

What queen of the saddle or spangled prince
Calls forth those plaudits that once were hers,
Ere the illness crept to her lungs that since

Hath dragged her down with its subtle curse?
But hush! the gloom in those eyes returns,
Her hand grows icy, the pulse flies fast,-
Nearer he bends, while the life-light burns
At its last wild flicker: 'tis out at last!

Alone with his dead! Now, dazed, appalled,
The sobs burst forth-he would voice his grief;
But no, his name from the flies is called;

His cue is on-there is no relief!

A moment more, and he 's there again,

With the cap and bells, in the cirque's expanse;
Though little they guess with what awful strain
Quip, joke, and jest for their laughter glance.
And how many and many there are, think you,
In the world's arena, whose heavy task
Is ever hidden from searching view

By the jester's garb, as a laughing mask?
Masks and faces together go;

Ill would it fare with us, rich or poor,
To unveil the heart, with the secret woe,
The cares and troubles, that most endure.

THE CORONATION-PAGEANT OF ANNE BOLEYN. J. A. FROUDE.

Glorious as the spectacle was, perhaps, however it passed unheeded. Those eyes were watching all for another object, which now drew near. In an open space behind the constable there was seen approaching “a white chariot," drawn by two palfreys in white damask which swept the ground,

a golden canopy borne above it making music with silver bells: and in the chariot sat the observed of all observers, the beautiful occasion of all this glittering homage; fortune's plaything of the hour, the Queen of England--queen_at last!-borne along upon the waves of this sea of glory, breathing the perfumed incense of greatness which she had risked her fair name, her delicacy, her honor, her self-respect, to win; and she had won it.

There she sat, dressed in white tissue robes, her fair hair flowing loose over her shoulders, and her temples circled with a light coronet of gold and diamonds-most beautifulloveliest-most favored, perhaps, as she seemed at that hour, of all England's daughters. Alas! "within the hollow round of that coronet

"Kept Death his court, and there the antick sate
Scoffing her state and grinning at her pomp;
Allowing her a little breath, a little scene

To monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks,
Infusing her with self and vain conceit,

As if the flesh which walled about her life

Were brass impregnable; and humored thus,

Bored thro' her castle walls; and farewell, Queen!"

Fatal gift of greatness! so dangerous ever! so more than dangerous in those tremendous times when the fountains are broken loose of the great deeps of thought, and nations are in the throes of revolution; when ancient order and law and traditions are splitting in the social earthquake; and as the opposing forces wrestle to and fro, those unhappy ones who stand out above the crowd become the symbols of the struggle, and fall the victims of its alternating fortunes. And what if into an unsteady heart and brain, intoxicated with splendor, the outward chaos should find its way, converting the poor silly soul into an image of the same confusion-if conscience should be deposed from her high place, and the Pandora box be broken loose of passions and sensualities and follies; and at length there be nothing left of all which man or woman ought to value, save hope of God's forgiveness.

Three short years have yet to pass, and again, on a summer morning, Queen Anne Boleyn will leave the Tower of London-not radiant then with beauty on a gay errand of coronation, but a poor, wandering ghost, on a sad, tragic errand, from which she will never more return, passing away out of an earth where she may stay no longer, into a pres

ence where, nevertheless, we know that all is well-for all of us-and therefore for her.

Did any twinge of remorse, any pang of painful recollection, pierce at that moment the incense of glory which she was inhaling? Did any vision flit across her of a sad, mourning figure which once had stood where she was standing, now desolate, neglected, sinking into the darkening twilight of a life cut short by sorrow? Who can tell? At such a time, that figure would have weighed heavily upon a noble mind, and a wise mind would have been taught by the thought of it, that, although life be fleeting as a dream, it is long enough to experience strange vicissitudes of fortune.

But Anne Boleyn was not noble and was not wise--too probably she felt nothing but the delicious, all-absorbing, all-intoxicating present; and if that plain, suffering face presented itself to her memory at all, we may fear that it was rather as a foil to her own surpassing loveliness. Two years later she was able to exult over Katharine's death; she is not likely to have thought of her with gentler feelings in the first glow and flush of triumph.

MILTIADES PETERKIN PAUL.-JOHN BROWNJOHN. Little Miltiades Peterkin Paul

Had been heard to declare he feared nothing at all.

"There's Abiathar Ann"-he would say-"now, at her age,
One would think she might show a little more courage.
Why, I really believe she would fall dead with fright,
If she came down the lane by herself in the night.

I can tell you, though, that's not the stuff I am made of!
I never saw anything I was afraid of!"

But one warm summer evening it chanced to befall
That little Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

Having been to the village for John Henry Jack,
Found it growing quite dark when he came to start back.
But he thought," Pooh! I don't care for that in the least!"
And he winked at the full moon, just up in the east;
Then with hands in his pockets he swaggered along,
While he kept up his courage with whistle and song.

All at once young Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

As he turned down the lane, perceived, close by the wall, Right before him, a dark, ghostly shape, crouching low, Which frightened poor little Miltiades so

That he turned cold all over-our valiant young heroJust as though the thermometer'd dropped down to zero; Then, his heart beating loudly, he covered his face

With his hands, and trudged on at a much quicker pace.

But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul

Had not gone many steps, when he thought, “After all,
I may be mistaken; perhaps I mistook

Some old stump, or a rock, or the cow, for a 'spook.'

Why, what could I be thinking of?" Then growing bolder,
He ventured to cast a glance over his shoulder,
When what was his wonder and horror to find
That the spectre was following close behind.

For one moment Miltiades Peterkin Paul

Was so terribly frightened he thought he would fall;
Then he flung his checked apron up over his head
To shut out the dread sight, and ingloriously fled.
But, alas! by the footsteps behind he soon knew
That his ghostly pursuer began to run, too;

And he uttered a shriek, and sped on without knowing
(With his eyes covered up) just which way he was going.

But little Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

Though he ran like the wind, found 'twas no use at all.
The footsteps grew louder behind, and at last
He suddenly found himself caught and held fast.
Whereupon, faint with terror, he sank to his knees,
And in piteous accents besought, "Oh, sir, please,
Good, kind Mr. Ghost, let me go! Oh, please do!
I am sure I would do as much, gladly, for you!"

But just then the ghost spoke and soothed his alarms,

And he found he'd rushed into his own brother's arms.

16

'Why," cried John Henry Jack, "what does this mean, my lad? Oh,

I see. Ha, ha, ha! Why, sir, that's your own shadow!"
And, sure enough, when he uncovered his face,
Our hero saw plainly that such was the case.
'Well," said little Miltiades Peterkin Paul,

"Please don't tell our Abiathar Ann-that is all!"

-The Wide Awake.

THERE'S WORK ENOUGH TO DO.

The black-bird early leaves its rest,
To meet the smiling morn,

And gather fragments for its nest,
From upland wood and lawn.

The busy bee, that wings its way 'Mid sweets of varied hue,

And every flower would seem to say, "There 's work enough to do."

The cowslip and the spreading vine,
The daisy in the grass,

The snow-drop and the eglantine,
Preach sermons as we pass.
The ant, within its cavern deep,
Would bid us labor too,

And writes upon his tiny heap-
"There's work enough to do."

The planets, at their Maker's will,
Move onward in their course,
For nature's will is never still-
'Tis progress, labor, force!
The leaves that flutter in the air,
And summer breezes woo,

One solemn truth to man declare-
"There's work enough to do.”

Who then can sleep, when all around
Is active, fresh, and free?

Shall man-creation's lord be found
Less busy than the bee?

Our courts and alleys are the field,
If men would search them through,
That richest sweets of labor yield,
And there's enough to do.

To have a heart for those who weep,
The sottish drunkard win;
To rescue all the children, deep
In ignorance and sin;

To help the poor, the hungry feed,
To give him coat and shoe;

To see that all can write and read-
"Is work enough to do."

The time is short-the world is wide, And much has to be done;

This wondrous earth and all its pride Will vanish with the sun!

The moments fly on lightning's wings, And life's uncertain, too;

We've none to waste on foolish things "There's work enough to do."