And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day,
But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away,

XII.

And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;
There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.
If I had lived-I cannot tell-I might have been his wife:
But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.

XIII.

O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow;
He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know;
And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine-
Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.

XIV.

O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done
The voice that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun-
Forever and forever with those just souls and true-

And what is life that we should moan? why make we such ado?

XV.

For ever and forever, all in a blessed home

And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come

To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast

And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.

THE SKELETON IN ARMOR.-LONGFELLOW.

This poem was suggested by the Round Tower at Newport, now claimed by the Danes, as a work of their ancestors.

"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!

Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest
Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"

Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
Gleam in December;

And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.

"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.

"Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic's strand,
I, with my childish hand,
Tamed the ger-falcon;

And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimm'd the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
Trembled to walk on.

"Oft to his frozen lair

Track'd I the grizzly bear,
While from my path the hare
Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf's bark,
Until the soaring lark

Sang from the meadow.

"But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair's crew
O'er the dark sea I flew
With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
By our stern orders.

"Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long winter out;
Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,
As we the Berserk's tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
Fill'd to o'erflowing.

"Once as I told in glee

Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning out tender;

And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine

Fell their soft splendor.

"I woo'd the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest's shade
Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosen'd vest
Flutter'd her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.

Bright in her father's hall
Shields gleam'd upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
Chanting his glory;

When of old Hildebrand
I ask'd his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrel stand
To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaff'd
Loud then the champion laugh'd
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.

"And as to catch the gale
Round veer'd the flapping sail,
Death! was the helmsman's hail.
Death without quarter!
Mid-ships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hull did reel
Through the black water.

"As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
Stretching to lee-ward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking sea-ward.

"There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;

Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;

Ne'er shall the sun arise
On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
The sun-light hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

O, death was grateful!

66 Thus, seam'd with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior's soul,

Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"

-Thus the tale ended.

VOICES OF GREENWOOD.-J. W. S. Hows.

GREENWOOD has its voices-eloquent ones, intelligible to our common humanity for they speak the universal language "that makes mankind akin." Their teachings too are beautiful and impressive. How suggestive of pure taste are the tongues that speak in her embowering trees, her winding glades, her sunny slopes, her mimic lakes, her sinuously arranged and picturesque walks. These are all books exquisitely illustrated, where the finishing touches have been delicately laid in by the Great Artist of the Universe! And then what sermons ever preached by stones can equal the expressive and solemn truths conveyed by the memorials reared by affection and respect, to snatch from forgetfulness the remembrance of those who were once the objects of reverence or of love? Yes, Greenwood has its voices! At all times and in all seasons every step within its hallowed precincts is vocal with the sounds of those eloquent and instructive monitors. The revivifying breath of spring is freighted with their utterings; the soft south winds of summer are laden with their genial teachings; the hollow murmurings of the autumnal breeze sigh forth their solemn warnings; and the winter's blast echoes with symbolical expression the truths these voices are made to utter. From "morn till dewy eve," in the broad glare of the meridian sunlight, and under the mellow radiance of the moon, may be heard their whisperings, by all whose hearts are attuned to the reception of genial influences and holy imaginations. Can we

Are these voices as palpable to feeling as to sound? arrest them in their airy flights; and, giving to them the tangible form of type, can we transfer them to our firesides, or carry them with us to the bustling mart, and the sequestered haunt, or make them the companions of our wayfaring excursions? The experiment is worth the trial, albeit we may fail fully to translate their meaning, and may not succeed in rendering their eloquent and impressive lessons with equal force and expression as when they are heard in their own appropriate temple.

Yet to the single-hearted and the sincere, who go forth to Greenwood "to list to nature's teachings" with simplicity of purpose and obedience of spirit, even our imperfect jottings may be expanded into finished volumes; and for the lighthearted and the unreflective we may perchance recall many a