Now tells her beads, now gazes on the cross
And image of the Saviour.

Forth goes the lover with a farewell moan,
As from the presence of a thing inhuman;
O, what unholy spell hath turned to stone
The young warm heart of woman!

"T is midnight, — and the moonbeam, cold and wan, On bower and river quietly is sleeping,

And o'er the corse of a self-murdered man

The maiden fair is weeping.

In vain she looks into his glassy eyes,

No pressure answers to her hands so pressing;
In her fond arms impassively he lies,
Clay-cold to her caressing.

Despairing, stunned, by her eternal loss,

She flies to succor that may best beseem her,
But, lo a frowning figure veils the cross,
And hides the blest Redeemer !

With stern right hand it stretches forth a scroll,
Wherein she reads, in melancholy letters,
The cruel, fatal pact that placed her soul
And her young heart in fetters.

"Wretch! sinner! renegade! to truth and God,
Thy holy faith for human love to barter!"
No more she hears, but on the bloody sod
Sinks, Bigotry's last martyr!

And side by side the hapless lovers lie;

Tell me, harsh priest! by yonder tragic token,
What part hath God in such a bond, whereby
Or hearts or vows are broken?

Thomas Hood.

A

SAINT CHRISTOPHER.

IN THE CATHEDRAL.

H, my strong saint, who wouldst not deign to

serve

Aught but the strongest! I behold thee there,

With thy broad shoulders and thy giant form,

Thou hadst no wit nor knowledge; couldst not learn What the priests bade thee, couldst not bend thy knee

To their long prayers or tedious penances.

Thou gavest what thou hadst, thy manly strength,
To the sweet service of humanity.

So thou didst bear the Christ upon thy back,

And minister unto the Lord of Glory.

Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham.

THOMAS AQUINAS.

THOMAS AQUINAS, the Angelic Doctor, confessedly the most eminent of the schoolmen, died in 1274, at the Convent of Fossanova, near Terracina, where he had been compelled to stop by illness, while on his way to the second Council of Lyons, to which he was repairing by order of the Pope.... He had been educated at Cologne, under the tuition of Albert, called, by his contemporaries, the Great, on account of his scholastic attain

ments; and it is said that at the moment of Aquinas's death, Albert, then eighty-four, was with his pupils at Cologne, when he suddenly burst into tears, and exclaimed that Aquinas was dead.

THE

HE studies were over, the volumes were closed, -
Albertus the Great from his labors reposed;

His table was laid by the banks of the Rhine,

Gay laughed his young pupils, gay past round the wine.
But why, on a sudden, has vanished his cheer?
Why down the wise cheek gushes forth the sad tear?
Why droops down in sorrow the hoary-locked head?
"Ah! well may I weep,- for Aquinas is dead!

"My pupils, dear pupils, don't question to know
How come to my heart these dark tidings of woe.
Many tall mountains rise, many dark rivers roll,
"Tween Cologne and the spot where he renders his soul!
But in far Fossanova I hear him declare

That he feels his last haven of resting is there.
I see him laid low on his pain-stricken bed,
And e'en as I speak, my Aquinas is dead!

"All Europe resounds with the pride of thy fame: All churchmen, all schoolmen, bend low at thy name ; Wherever the wise or the learned may be,

They humbly acknowledge their master in thee.
And can I forget that with me was begun

Thy bright course of glory, thou more than a son!
That the tongue which with learning thy fresh spirit fed
Now survives to declare that Aquinas is dead!

“Thirty summers, my Thomas, have withered and past, Since I first saw thy figure, tall, bony, and vast;

When was yielded the hand that was meant for the sword,

To labor in peace for the work of the Lord.
When thy mother in tears to Saint Dominic gave
The young Count of Aquino, the heir of the brave.
Thy youth through the mazes of wisdom I led, -
Why live I to say that Aquinas is dead?

"I am proud to remember how, hour after hour,
Beneath me thy mind budded forth like a flower;
Till matured every talent, sublimed every thought,
And thy teacher veiled cap to the boy he once taught,
But the eye that was bright it was mine to see dini,
Gray the once glossy lock, shrunk the giant-like limb
Thou hast sunk in the light that thy genius has shed,
And thy old master wails that Aquinas is dead."
William Maginn.

Dannenberg.

COVENANT-SONG BEFORE BATTLE,

ON THE MORNING OF THE FIGHT NEAR DANNENBERG.

AWFUL omens, dark and ruddy,

Usher in this morn of wrath,
And the sun looks cold and bloody
Out upon our bloody path.
Startling news a world will waken

Ere a few more hours are past,
And e'en now the lots are shaken,
And the iron die is cast.

Brothers, the night-shades are flying! - take warning.
Now, by the fresh, holy light of the morning,
Swear, hand in hand, to be true to the last.

In the gloom of nights behind us
Insult, ignominy frown,--

Foreign slaves, with chains to bind us,
And our German oak bowed down.
Shamed has been the speech our mothers
Taught us, and our God blasphemed;
We have pawned our honor; - brothers,
German brothers, be it redeemed!

Brothers, the hour is come! Side by side stand now!
Turn Heaven's wrath from your loved native land now!
Let the Palladium the lost

In the smile of hope before us
Lies a golden future time;
Open, sunny skies bend o'er us;

be redeemed!

There, in Freedom's blissful clime,
German art and music greet us,

Woman's grace and love's delight,
All old forms of greatness meet us,
Beauty's charms again invite.

But bloody-red must that morning be breaking:
Brothers, our life's last warm drop we are staking:
Our hope blooms only in martyrdom's night!

Yet, God help, we will not falter;
As one man we 'll meet the foe,
Lay our heart on Freedom's altar,
And to death, unshrinking, go.