Twenty minutes past eight. Ah, here he is now,—
A murmur of pleasure, applause and a bow,—
A plain-looking man; but the audience said
"What a very odd face, what a wonderful head.”
They sang. He arose; and throughout the great hall
The silence was such you might hear a pin fail.
His text I forget;-but that makes little odds,
Since all texts and all sermens pertain to the gods.
Once into his subject, anon did he pause
To picture the beauties of spiritual laws.
He spoke of the messenger sent us in love
And lifted his hand to the ceiling above.

(Sage gesture.)-The audience rolled up their eyes,
And saw apparitions superb in the skies.

He smiled, and their faces were lit with a smile; Looked sad, wiped his eyes, and then wept for awhile; Then he stormed, and his eloquence took them so well They bent in their seats to the mastering spell;

On his words hung enraptured, and murmured when o'er, "We never heard anything like it before;"

Looked sage and looked sideways, as much as to say,
"That's what we call preaching; that, that is the way."
The plate was passed round,-the collection was just
To defray cash expenses and not run on trust;
And the services were about drawn to an end
With the thanks of the house to their eloquent friend,
When he came to the front!" I had almost forgot
(Excuse me, my friends,) the announcement I ought
To have made at the first, but it slipped from my mind.
It is this: You will be disappointed to find
The preacher who was to be with you to-night
Has not yet arrived, and the board thought it right
That some one should speak to get out of the plight;
So happening to know of my presence, they prayed
That I would address you instead. I obeyed
Although I am only a peddler by trade.

And now, my dear friends, without any extension,
I thank you-" He intended to say “for attention,"
But the shuffle of feet and the "ahems" that arose
Brought his good-natured thanks to an ill-natured close.
Those nearest the door were soon clean out of sight,
And swore they were not in the city that night;
And the lady who whispered “ Inspired of God,”
Now grumbled, "Indeed, to be taught by a clod!"

And the gentleman said, with an ill-disguised frown, "I knew from the first he was only a clown;

But I would not disturb any one by expressing

My opinion." In short, they had all turned to-blessing.
They sang not a hymn for the choir was gone;
The gallery was empty, the organ alone;

They prayed not a prayer, but with common consent
The preacher said “Ah,” and the audience went!

THE FALLOW FIELD.-JULIA C. R. DORR

The sun comes up and the sun goes down,
The night mist shroudeth the sleeping town;
But if it be dark or if it be day,

If the tempests beat or the breezes play,
Still here on this upland slope I lie
Looking up to the changeful sky.

Naught am I but a fallow field;
Never a crop my acres yield;

Over the wall at my right hand

Stately and green the corn blades stand,

And I hear at my left the flying feet

Of the winds that rustle the bending wheat.

Often while yet the morn is red

I list for our master's eager tread.

He smiles at the young corn's towering height,
He knows the wheat is a goodly sight,
But he glances not at the fallow field
Whose idle acres no wealth may yield.
Sometimes the shout of the harvesters
The sleeping pulse of my being stirs,
And, as one in a dream, I seem to feel
The sweep and the rush of the swinging steel,
Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain

As they heap their wains with the golden grain

Yet, O my neighbors, be not too proud,

Though on every tongue your praise is loud,
Our mother Nature is kind to me,

And I am beloved by bird and bee,
And never a child that passes by
But turns upon me a grateful eye.

Over my head the skies are blue;

I have my share of the rain and dew;

I bask like you in the summer sun

When the long bright days pass, one by one;
And calm as yours is my sweet repose
Wrapped in the warmth of the winter's snows.

For little our loving mother cares
Which the corn or the daisy bears,
Which is rich with the ripening wheat,
Which with the violet's breath is sweet,

Which is red with the clover bloom,

Or which for the wild sweet fern makes room.
Useless under the summer sky

Year after year men say I lie.

Little they know what strength of mine
I give to the trailing blackberry vine;
Little they know how the wild grape grows,
Or how my life-blood flushes the rose.

Little they think of the cups I fill
For the mosses creeping under the hill;
Little they think of the feast I spread

For the wild wee creatures that must be fed:
Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee,

And the creeping things that no eye may see.

Lord of the harvest, Thou dost know
How the summers and winters go.
Never a ship sails east or west

Laden with treasures at my behest.

Yet my being thrills to the voice of God

When I give my gold to the golden-rod.

THE KNIGHT'S VOW.-J. BEAUFOY LANE.

Farewell, sweet, my bride!" the gallant knight cried, "To the wars I must hasten away;

But whatever betide, I'll be back by thy side
From the fray in a year and a day.

And where'er I may be, by land or by sea,
I will never forget thee, never!

By the vows I profess, by the kisses I press,
I'll be true to thee, ever and ever!"

Then off rode the knight, in bright armor bedight,
And the lady she wept in her bower,
And a year and a day fled quickly away;

But she counted each hour and hour.

Had alas the brave knight then forgotten her quite,
Would he never return to her, never?

"By the kisses he pressed, by the vows he professed,
He swore he'd be true to me ever!"

And seven years' hied, broken-hearted she died;
And a stalwart form stood by her grave.
At last from the fight had returned the brave knight,
To the Moors he had long been a slave:
But on Palestine's plains, a captive in chains

He had never forgotten her, never,
Ere a year and a day again passed away,
Kind death had united them ever.

THE GHEBER'S BLOODY GLEN.-THOMAS MOore.

The Ghebers, or Guebers, were the original inhabitants of Persia, followers of Zoroaster, and are generally known among Europeans as Fire-Worshipers. Large numbers of them were driven out of Persia, by the Mohammedan invaders, in the seventh century. In the poem of "The Fire-Worshipers" Moore describes the romantic attachment which had sprung up between Hinda, the daughter of the Arab chieftain, and Hafed, the leader of the hated Ghebers. The Arabs, at the time, were contemplating an onslaught upon their enemy. There was a defile through the mountains, known only to the Ghebers, and here remain in safety, but the pathway was betrayed by one of the Arabs were thus enabled to overthrow them. The following the approach of the Moslem legions is heard. IRAN is the original name of the Empire of Persia.

But see-he starts-what heard he then?
That dreadful shout!-across the glen
From the land-side it comes, and loud
Rings through the chasm; as if the crowd
Of fearful things that haunt that dell,
Its ghouls and dives and shapes of hell,
Had all in one dread howl broke out,
So loud, so terrible that shout!

they expected to number, and the extract opens as

"They come the Moslems come!" he cries,
His proud soul mounting to his eyes;
"Now, spirits of the brave, who roam
Enfranchised through yon starry dome,
Rejoice, for souls of kindred fire
Are on the wing to join your choir!"

He said-and, light as bridegrooms bound

To their young loves, re-climbed the steep And gained the shrine; his chiefs stood round,— Their swords, as with instinctive leap, Together at that cry accursed,

Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst.
And hark!-again-again it rings;
Near and more near its echoings

Peal through the chasm; Oh! who that then
Had seen those listening warrior-men,
With their swords grasped, their eyes of flame
Turned on their Chief-could doubt the shame,
Th' indignant shame with which they thrill
To hear those shouts and yet stand still?

He read their thoughts,-they were his own;

What! while our arms can wield these blades, Shall we die tamely? die alone?

Without one victim to our shades,

One Moslem heart, where, buried deep,
The sabre from its toil may sleep?
No-God of Iran's burning skies!
Thou scornst the inglorious sacrifice.
No-though of all earth's hope bereft,
Life, swords, and vengeance still are left.
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves

Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
Till tyrants shudder when their slaves
Tell of the Gheber's bloody glen.
Follow, brave hearts!-this pile remains
Our refuge still from life and chains;
But his the best, the holiest bed,
Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!"
Down the precipitous rocks they sprung,
While vigor, more than human, strung
Each arm and heart.-Th' exulting foe
Still through the dark defiles below,
Tracked by his torches' lurid fire,

Wound slow, as through Golconda's vale
The mighty serpent, in his ire,

Glides on with glittering, deadly trail.
No torch the Ghebers need-so well
They know each mystery of the dell;
So oft have, in their wanderings,