Our banners on those turrets wave,

And there our evening bugles play;
Where orange-boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.

We are not many we who pressed
Beside the brave who fell that day;
But who of us has not confessed
He'd rather share their warrior rest,
Than not have been at Monterey?

MARY AND THE MOON.

The moon is well enough, in her way, however you may look at her; but her appearance is, to say the least of it, peculiar to a man floating on his back in the centre of a stone tank with a dead wall of some fifteen or twenty feet rising squarely on every side of him (the young man smiled bitterly as he said this and shuddered once or twice before he went on musingly)! The last time I had noted the planet with any emotion she was on the wane. Mary was with me, I had brought her out here one morning to look at the view from the top of the Reservoir. She said little of the scene, but as we talked of our old childish loves, I saw that its fresh features were incorporating themselves with tender memories of the past, and I was content.

There was a rich golden haze upon the landscape, and as my own spirits arose amid the voluptuous atmosphere she pointed to the waning planet, discernible like a faint gash in the welkin, and wondered how long it would be before the leaves would fall! Strange girl, did she mean to rebuke my joyous mood, as if we had no right to be happy while Nature, withering in her pomp, and the sickly moon wasting in the blaze of noontide, were there to remind us of "the gone-for-ever?" "They will all renew themselves, dear Mary," said I, encouragingly, "and there is one that will ever keep tryst alike with thee and Nature through all seasons, if thou wilt

VOL. XIII.-12.

be true to one of us, and remain as now a child of Nature."

A tear sprang to her eye, and then searching her pocket for her card-case, she remembered an engagement to be present at Miss Lawson's opening of fall bonnets, at two o'clock!

And yet, dear, wild, wayward Mary, I thought of her now. You have probably outlived this sort of thing, sir; but I, looking at the moon, as I floated there upturned to her yellow light, thought of the loved being whose tears I knew would flow when she heard of my singular fate, at once so grotesque, yet melancholy to awfulness.

And how often we have talked, too, of that Carian shepherd who spent his damp nights upon the hills, gazing as I do on the lustrous planet! Who will revel with her amid these old superstitions? Who, from our own unlegended woods, will evoke their yet undetected, haunting spirits? Who peer with her in prying scrutiny into Nature's laws, and challenge the whisperings of poetry from the voiceless throat of matter? Who laugh merrily of the stupid guesswork of pedants, that never mingled with the infinitude of Nature, through love exhaustless and all embracing, as we have? Poor girl, she will be companionless.

Also! companionless forever - save in the exciting stages of some brisk flirtation. She will live hereafter by feeding other hearts with love's lore she has learned from me, and then, Pygmalion-like, grow fond of the images she has herself endowed with semblance of divinity, until they seem to breathe back the mystery the soul can truly catch from only one.

How anxious she will be lest the coroner shall have discovered any of her notes in my pocket! - From The Man in the Reservoir - A Fantasie Piece.

OFFMANN, AUGUST HEINRICH (called VON

FALLERSLEBEN, from his birthplace); a Ger

man poet and philologist; born in Hanover, Prussia, April 2, 1798; died at Höxter, Prussia, January 19, 1874. He was educated at Göttingen and at Bonn, and was destined for theology; but, under the influence of Grimm, became an enthusiastic student of Old German literature. On completing his university course he travelled in Germany and Holland, collecting from the peasantry the remains of old ballads preserved among them. In 1830 he was appointed Professor of the German Language and Literature in the University of Breslau. Besides performing his professional duties he published several philological works, a volume of ballad poetry of the Middle Ages, and some poems of his own. The appearance in 1840-41 of his Unpolitical Songs, a collection having more to do with politics than their title indicated, led to his dismissal from the university. For several years he wandered in Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, everywhere studying the language and literature of the country he was in. In 1845 he established himself in Mecklenburg, and three years later was recalled to Berlin by the King, and was granted a pension from the Crown. In 1854 he went to Weimar, and was one of the editors of the Year-Book. The last thirteen years of his life he was librarian to the Duke of Ratibor. His principal philological and historical works are Hora Belgicæ (1830–52); Fundgruben für Geschichte deutscher Sprache und Literatur (1830-37); Geschichte des deutschen Kirchenliedes bis auf Luther (1832); Reineke Fuchs (1834);

Die deutsche Philologie in Grundriss (1836); Monumenta Elnonensia, containing the Ludwigslied, discovered by Hoffmann in the library of Valenciennes (1837); Gesellschaftslieder des 16ten und 17ten Jahrhunderts (1844); Spenden zur deutschen Literaturgeschichte (1845), and Beiträge zur Geschichte der deutschen Poesie (1854). Among his poetical works are Allemanischer Lieder (1826); Gedichte (1834); Unpolitische Lieder (1840-41); Fünfzig Kinderlieder and Deutsche Lieder aus der Schweiz (1843); Vierzig Kinderlieder (1847); Liebeslieder (1850); Heimathkläng (1850); Rheinleben (1851); and Lieder aus Weimar (1856).

SONG OF AN EXILE.

Again my longing footsteps turned

To that lov'd spot whence I did roam;
To those who lov'd me I returned,

And hailed with joy my father's home.

Familiar songs, sweet music's strain,
Thrilled through my breast with holy joy.
My native home I saw again,

The realm of the once sportive boy.

'Neath blooming trees I hoped to find
The peaceful days that once I knew,
Recall my childhood's dreams to mind,
And like a child rejoice anew.

Bent o'er my staff, I longed to cease
My weary pilgrimage so sad,

Till in the garden-ground of peace

My mother's grave in green was clad.

But no! the spring I may not see
Again in my paternal home;

THE LANSQUENET'S SONG AT THE FAIR.

Each with most rapture, his own doth behold;
This one his maiden, and that one his gold.

Others may strive for possessions of gold,
Hearts that are honest walk upright and bold.

Were I beggar, thou rich and of birth,
Doth not love make us both equal on earth?

Want also maketh me equal to you,
Death will take one day the emperor too.

Wherefore so mournful? Dost deem it amiss,
That thou didst lately present me a kiss?

Keep it I will not, 'twould bring me no gain;
Back will I give it, there, take it again!

GERMAN

- Translation of BASKERVILLE.

NATIONAL WEALTH.

Hurra! hurra! hurra! hurra!

We're off unto America!

What shall we take to our new land?
All sorts of things from every hand!
Confederation protocols;

Heaps of tax and budget rolls;
A whole ship-load of skins, to fill
With proclamations just at will.

Or when we to the New World come,
The German will not feel at home.

Hurra! hurra! hurra! hurra!
We're off unto America!

What shall we take to our new land?

All sorts of things from every hand!