It was "only" a drunkard that lighted the match,
And the shavings, that kindled a city to flame!
It was "only" a bolt, but it shackled the wretch,
And held him for life to a prison of shame.

It was "only" a leaf in the stream, as it flowed,
That turned it from peace to the turbulent way;
It was "only" a step at the fork of the road,

And youth was a wreck in the darkness astray.

It was "only" a drop from the lethean spring, That sparkled and gleamed in the depths of the bowl;

A sweet little drop, but it covered a sting

That pierced to the depths of an innocent soul.

A drop, boys, a drop! and a seed hath been sown— Like the upas, ere long that shall spring upon high! A drop, boys, a drop! and the curse is thine own ; Drink, drink, if you will, till the goblet be dry.

But charge not the folly to God, or to "tate!"
No child ever took as a gift from His hand,-
The loving All Father-this besom of hate,

That burns and consumes, and destroys in the land!

Shake up the glass, till the demon within,

Is white with the venom that comes to the top;

A drop, boy, a drop! it will do to begin;

But remember, the gallows hath also a "drop."

JOHN W. STORRS.

ZARAFI.

THE sultry day has closed at night on Syria's glow

ing plain,

The stars are gleaming pure and bright, the moon in beauty reigns.

Far o'er the waste of drifting sand the fiery coursers

speed,

Free as the air the Arab bands, the men of daring deed. The white tents glimmer in the light by Acre's storied

fane,

When erst streamed out the banners bright on Syria's hoary plain

And where the cross was held on high by Europe's knights of old,

Their lances pointing to the sky, their arms of burnished gold.

Beside the tent at midnight hour is heard a stifled moan, A murmuring to Allah's power, to Allah's dazzling

throne;

And suffering, weak, and wounded sore, the fainting cap

tive lay,

His mem'ries with the battles were, his dread the coming

day,

And home and wife and children dear came thronging through his brain.

Unmanned at last, the silent tear wets his dark cheek like rain

But hark! he hears a gentle sound, it floats along the

plain,

It makes his fainting pulses bound, it stills his madden

ing pain.

Zarafi calls--a friend in need-his master knows full

well;

Oh, could he mount that gallant steed-then, Acre's tents, farewell!

His captor's eyes are closed in sleep, he groans with racking pain

The cruel cords are cutting still in quiver'ng muscles bare;

But naught can curb his iron will-no wailing of de

spair

One purpose firm the Arab chief now nerves his utmost

power

Then welcome all the pangs of death and slav'ry's darkest hour.

"Poor friend," he said, in accents low, as at his feet he

lay

Zarafi bends his crest of snow and licks his tears away"Go forth across the burning sands where Jordan's infant

་་

stream

Descends to Zion's holy lands, the prophet's ancient dream

To Zeenab's tent—oh, speed thee well—my courser swift and strong,

Where fair Arabia's mountains swell the land of love

and song.

Oh, put thy head within the door-oh, speak with loving eyes!

Tell her El Marc returns no more, in slavery's bonds he

dies.

But thou art free! no Turk shall ride my proud Zarafi's

form,

Free as the air, my Arab pride. swift as the rushing

storm

Go forth! go forth! with stately grace across the burning sands,

And look once more in Zeenab's face and lick my children's hands."

His bleeding mouth untied the knot that held the good steed there,

His blending tears bedewed the spot upon the glossy

hair;

Thy turn, Zarafi! bend thy crest, and lift thy master

now,

Thy limbs must know no laggard rest, thy breath is on his brow.

He lifts him to his back. As breaks the opening daySwift as an arrow from the bow Zarafi speeds away. Beneath thy sun, oh, storied land, with energies un

spent,

The good steed spurns the burning sand, his goal is Zeenab's tent,

Each bubbling spring that marks the way Zarafi knows

full well;

Each tree that screens from burning ray, he knows each shaded dell,

Nor stays he by the grassy run, nor in the shade's cool breath,

Though strained is now each aching limb, though every stride is death.

His master faints unconscious now, nor thought of child or wife

Throbs through his pale and haggard brow as ebbs his fleeting life.

The night's cold dews are falling o'er Zarafi's drooping crest,

And Zeenab mourns her Arab mate, her face to Mecca's

shrine,

She prays to him who guides her fate, to Allah all divine. Her little ones are gathering round-as to her form they cling,

They hear the distant beating sound; is it an angel's wing?

They hear a faintly uttered neigh, it is his latest breath. At Zeenab's door his master lay-the horse lay still in

death,

The death sweat lay upon his skin erst smooth and glossy fair,

His faithful heart was still within, and wet his matted

hair.

El Marc yet lived, and loving hands brought back his fleeting life,

He led again the Arab bands in war's remorseless strife.
In tents of wandering Ishmael, as in the days of old,
Is heard the proud rehearsal now-Zarafi's deeds are
told,

And sweetly flows the story, and glows each swarthy face,

And ever bright the glory of Zarafi's dying race.

LAMARTINE.

ELIJAH AND THE PROPHETS OF BAAL.

A

ND it came to pass, when Ahab saw Elijah, that
Ahab said unto him, Art thou he that troubleth

Israel?

And he answered, I have not troubled Israel; but thou, and thy father's house, in that ye have forsaken the