Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought

So, forward! and farewell!

Toll ye my Second, toll;

Fling high the flambeau's light;

And sing the hymn for a parted soul

Beneath the silent night;

The helm upon his head,

The cross upon his breast,

Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed: Now take him to his rest!

Call ye my Whole, go, call

The Lord of lute and lay,

And let him greet the sable pall
With a noble song to-day :
Ay, call him by his name;

No fitter hand may crave

To light the flame of a soldier's fame, On the turf of a soldier's grave.

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.

I remember, I remember

How my childhood fleeted by,The mirth of its December,

And the warmth of its July; On my brow, love, on my brow, love, There are no signs of care; But my pleasures are not now, love, What childhood's pleasures were.

Then the bowers, then the bowers,
Were blithe as blithe could be;
And all their radiant flowers

Were coronals for me:

Gems to-night, love-gems to-night, love,
Are gleaming in my hair;

But they are not half so bright, love,
As childhood's roses were.

I was singing-I was singing,
And my songs were idle words;
But from my heart was springing
Wild music like a bird's:
Now I sing, love-now I sing, love,
A fine Italian air;

But it's not so glad a thing, love,
As childhood's ballads were!

I was merry-I was merry, When my little lovers came,

With a lily, or a cherry,

Or a new invented game;

Now I've you, love-now I've you, love, To kneel before me there;

But you know you're not so true, love, As childhood's lovers were!

Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

Miss Landon, the daughter of an army agent, was born in Chelsea, England, in 1802, and died in 1838. She began to write verses at an early age, and, under the signature of L. E. L., contributed largely to the London Literary Gazette. Her father died, and she supported herself and some of her relatives by her pen. In 1838 she was married to George Maclean, Governor of Cape Coast Castle, and sailed for her new home. There, in October of the same year, she died from an over-dose of prussic acid, which she was in the habit of taking for an hysterical affection. Her poems, popular in their day, show, with some flashes of genius, the "fatal facility" which rests in mediocrity. Perhaps she could not afford to blot, so long as her most trifling productions brought the muchneeded money. Her "Poetical Sketches" appeared in 1821; "The Improvisatrice, and other Poems," in 1824. Her "Life and Literary Remains" were published by Laman Blanchard in 1841. Her collected poems, edited by W. B. Scott, appeared in 1873. She wrote several novels, the reputation of which was ephemeral.

SUCCESS ALONE SEEN.

Few know of life's beginnings-men behold
The goal achieved;-the warrior, when his sword
Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun;
The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm;
The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice,
And mould opinion, on his gifted tongue:
They count not life's first steps, and never think
Upon the many miserable hours

When hope deferred was sickness to the heart.
They reckon not the battle and the march,
The long privations of a wasted youth;
They never see the banner till unfurled.
What are to them the solitary nights
Passed, pale and anxious, by the sickly lamp,
Till the young poet wins the world at last
To listen to the music long his own?
The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind
That makes their destiny; but they do not trace
Its struggle, or its long expectancy.

Hard are life's early steps; and, but that youth
Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope,
Men would behold its threshold, and despair.

And oh my wingéd spirit loves to fly,
Like a strong eagle, 'mid their up-piled crags.
But most on thee, imperial mount, my soul
Is chained as by a spell of power.—I gaze
Where Death held erst high carnival. The waves
Of the mysterious death-river moaned;
The tramp, the shout, the fearful thunder-roar
Of red-breathed cannon, and the wailing cry
Of myriad victims, filled the air. The smoke
Of battle closed above the charging hosts,
And, when it passed, the grand old flag no more
Waved in the light of heaven. The soil was wet
And miry with the life-blood of the brave,
As with a drenching rain; and you broad stream,
The noble and majestic Tennessee,

Ran reddened toward the deep.

But thou, O bleak

And rocky mountain, wast the theatre
Of a yet fiercer struggle. On thy height,
Where now I sit,-a proud and gallant host,
The chivalry and glory of the South,
Stood up awaiting battle. Sombre clouds,
Floating afar beneath them, shut from view
The stern and silent foe, whose storied flag
Bore on its folds our country's monarch-bird,
Whose talons grasp the thunder-bolt. Up, up
Thy rugged sides they came with measured tramp,
Unheralded by bugle, drum, or shout;

And though the clouds closed round them with the gloom

Of double night, they paused not in their march
Till sword and plume and bayonet emerged
Above the spectral shades that circled round
Thy awful breast. Then suddenly a storm

Of flame and lead and iron downward burst
From this tall pinnacle, like winter hail.
Long, fierce, and bloody was the strife,-alas!
The noble flag, our country's hope and pride,
Sank down beneath the surface of the clouds,
As sinks the pennon of a shipwrecked bark
Beneath a stormy sea, and naught was heard
Save the wild cries and moans of stricken men,
And the swift rush of fleeing warriors down
Thy rugged steeps.

But soon the trumpet-voice
Of the bold chieftain of the routed host
Resounded through the atmosphere, and pierced
The clouds that hung around thee. With high words
He quickly summoned his brave soldiery back
To the renewal of the deadly fight:
Again their stern and measured tramp was heard
By the flushed Southrons, as it echoed up
Thy bald, majestic cliffs. Again they burst,

The silent Power that brings thee back, with lead

ing-strings of love,

To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above,

Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves;

For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves.

Richard Hengist Horne.

Horne, born in London in 1803, was educated at Sandhurst College. He entered the Mexican navy as a midshipman in the war against Spain, and when peace came returned to England, and devoted himself to literature. He is the author of three tragedies, of which he regarded "Gregory the Seventh" as his best; has written stories for children, disquisitions, ballads and romances, biographies and essays. His most successful work, "Orion, an Epic Poem" (1843), had reached a ninth edition in 1874. The price of the first edition was placed at a farthing, as a sarcasm upon the low estimation into which epic poetry has fallen." Three large editions were sold at a farthing a copy; the fourth was raised to a shilling, and the fifth to half a crown. In his "Literati" Poe gives an elaborate and eulogistic review of "Orion." The poem contains some beautiful passages, but lacks the human, normal interest which a successful epic must have.

MORNING.

FROM ORION."

O'er meadows green or solitary lawn,
When birds appear earth's sole inhabitants,
The long, clear shadows of the morning differ
From those of eve, which are more soft and vague,
Suggestive of past days and mellowed grief.
The lights of morning, even as her shades,
Are architectural, and pre-eminent

In quiet freshness, 'mid the pause that holds
Prelusive energies. All life awakes:
Morn comes at first with white, uncertain light;
Then takes a faint red, like an opening bud
Seen through gray mist; the mist clears off; the sky
Unfolds; grows ruddy; takes a crimson flush ;
Puts forth bright sprigs of gold,-which soon ex-
panding

In saffron, thence pure golden shines the morn;
Uplifts its clear, bright fabric of white clouds,
All tinted, like a shell of polished pearl,
With varied glancings, violet gleam and blush;
Embraces nature; and then passes on,
Leaving the sun to perfect his great work.

Samuel Laman Blanchard (1803–1845) was a native of Great Yarmouth, England. His father, a painter and glazier, gave him a good classical education, but could not afford to send him to college. Laman had a week's experience on the stage, and was disenchanted of his theatrical aspirations. He then thought of joining Lord Byron in Greece, in company with Jerrold. This plan was abandoned, and at the age of twenty he married. He engaged editorially in literature and politics; was connected successively with the Monthly Magazine, La Belle Assemblée, the True Sun, the Court Journal, Ainsworth's Magazine, and the Examiner. In 1828 he published “Lyric Offerings," a volume cordially praised by Lord Lytton, then Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, and editing the New Monthly Magazine; who called attention to "the following exquisite lines" in a sonnet on Noon: "This is sweet,

To see the heavens all open, and the hood

Of crystal Noon flung back! the earth meanwhile
Filling her veins with sunshine-vital blood
Of all that now from her full breast doth smile
(Casting no shadow) on that pleasant flood

Of light, where every mote is some small minstrel's isle," Laman Blanchard died by his own hand, while he was in a state of great nervous excitement, bordering on insanity. Six months before, he had expressed his horror of suicide. "How dreadful," he said, "it would be for the children! If nothing else would deter me, that would." In 1846 appeared "Sketehes from Life, by the late Laman Blanchard: with a Memoir of the Author by Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.;" who says of Blanchard: "He was thoroughly honest, true, and genuine; ever ready to confer a kindness; and of a grateful disposi tion, which exaggerated into obligation the most commonplace returns to his own affectionate feelings and ready friendship."

THE ELOQUENT PASTOR DEAD. He taught the cheerfulness that still is ours, The sweetness that still lurks in human powers: If heaven be full of stars, the earth has flowers!