With links unfastened did remain;
And it was liberty to stride
Along my cell from side to side,
And up and down, and then athwart,
And tread it over every part;
And round the pillars one by one,
Returning where my walk begun→
Avoiding only, as I trod,

My brothers' graves without a sod;
For if I thought with heedless tread
My step profaned their lowly bed,
My breath came gaspingly and thick,
And my
crushed heart fell blind and sick.

VIII.

It might be months, or years, or days—
I kept no count, I took no note-

I had no hope my eyes to raise,

And clear them of their dreary mote;

At last came men to set me free,

I asked not why, and recked not where ;
It was at length the same to me,
Fettered or fetterless to be;

I learned to love despair.

And thus, when they appeared at last,
And all my bonds aside were cast,
These heavy walls to me had grown
A hermitage-and all my own!
And half I felt as they were come
To tear me from a sacred home.
With spiders I had friendship made,
And watched them in their sullen trade,-
Had seen the mice by moonlight play-
And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill; yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learned to dwell.
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are :-even I
Regained my freedom with a sigh.

LORD BYRON.

EVENING AT THE FARM.

[The beauty here lies in the natural manner in which the calling voice is used. Picture the scene in the mind, and be true to the spirit of the piece.]

Over the hill the farm-boy goes;
His shadow lengthens along the land,
A giant staff in a giant hand;
In the poplar-tree, above the spring,
The katydid begins to sing;

The early dews are falling;

Into the stone-heap darts the mink;
The swallows skim the river's brink;
And home to the woodland fly the crows,
When over the hill the farm-boy goes,
Cheerily calling,

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" Farther, farther, over the hill,

Faintly calling, calling still,

"Co' boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes,

With grateful heart, at the close of day;
Harness and chain are hung away;

In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plow;
The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow,
The cooling dews are falling:

The friendly sheep his welcome bleat,
The pigs come grunting to his feet
The whinnying mare her master knows,
When into the yard the farmer goes,
His cattle calling:

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
While still the cow-boy, far away,
Goes seeking those that have gone astray-
"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.
The cattle come crowding through the gate,
Looing, pushing, little and great;
About the trough, by the farm-yard pump,
The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump,

While the pleasant dews are falling;

The new milch heifer is quick and shy,
But the old cow waits with tranquil eye,
And the white stream into the bright pail flows,
When to her task the milkmaid goes,

Soothingly calling,

"So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool, Saying, "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes.
The apples are pared, the paper read,

The stories are told, then all to bed.
Without, the crickets' ceaseless song
Makes shrill the silence all night long;
The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock;
Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock;
The household sinks to deep repose,
But still in sleep the farm-boy goes
Singing, calling,—

"Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"
And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams,
Drums in the pail with the flashing streams,
Murmuring, "So, boss! so!"

J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

MACLAINE'S CHILD.

[b imagining yourself to be placed in the position of the actors in this tiling scene, an effective rendering will be secured.]

"Maclaine! you've scourged me like a hound ;-
You should have struck me to the ground;
You should have played a chieftain's part;
You should have stabbed me to the heart.

"You should have crushed me unto death;-
But here I swear with living breath
That for this wrong which you have done
I'll wreak my vengeance on your son,-

"On him, and you, and all your race!"
He said, and bounding from his place,
He seized the child with sudden hold-
A smiling infant, three years old-

And, starting like a hunted stag,
He scaled the rock, he clomb the crag,
And reached, o'er a many wide abyss,
The beetling seaward precipice;

And leaning o'er its topmost ledge,
He held the infant o'er the edge :-
In vain thy wrath, thy sorrow vain;
No hand shall save it, proud Maclaine!"