an at last she put her dear face on my breast, an' kissed me, as she had done every neet sin' we were mon an' wife.

"Good-bye, dear lad," she whispers-her voice aw broken. "Doan't come back to th' house till I'm gone; good-bye, dear, dear lad, an' God bless thee!" An' she slipped out o' my arms an' wur gone in a moment, awmost before I could cry out.

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MRS. FRANCES H. BURNETT, IN SCRIBNER'S MONTHLY.

The whole of this beautiful story, with others from Mrs. Burnett's charming pen, may be found in a book of hers, called "Surly Tim and other Stories "ublished by Scribner, Armstrong & Co., New York.

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT.

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day; And the last rays kiss'd the forehead of a man and maiden fair,

He with step so slow and weakened, she with sunny, floating hair;

He with sad, bowed head, and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring tonight."

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,

With its walls so dark and gloomy,-walls so dark, and damp and cold,

"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring tonight"

66

'Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton-every word pierced her young heart

Like a thousand gleaming arrows-like a deadly poisoned dart;

"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour;
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right,
Now I'm old, I will not miss it; girl, the Curfew rings to-
night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

And within her heart's deep center Bessie made a solemn Vow;

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the Curfew-Basil Underwood must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright

One low murmur, scarcely spoken-"Curfew must not ring tonight!"

She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,

Left the old man coming slowly paths he'd trod so oft be

fore;

Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow

aglow,

Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and

fro;

Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of

light,

Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring tonight!"

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great

dark bell,

And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to

hell;

See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! her eyes flash with sudden

light,

As she springs and grasps it firmly-" Curfew shall not ring tonight!"

Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck below; There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro;

And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heard the bell),

And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral

knell ;

Still the maiden clinging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white,

Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating-" Curfew shall not ring tonight."

It was o'er the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped

once more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years

before

Human foot had not been planted; and what she this night had done

Should be told in long years after-as the rays of setting sun Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads of

white,

Tell their children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and

her brow,

Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty

now;

At his feet she told her story, showed her hands all bruised

and torn;

And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad

and worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity-lit his eyes with misty

light;

"Go, your lover lives!" cried Cromwell- "Curfew shall not

ring tonight."

THE WELCOME.

Come in the evening, or come in the morning;
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning,
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing,
"True lovers don't sever!"

I'll pull you sweet flowers to wear if you choose them,
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom ;
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.
Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor ;

I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I'll wish you in silence to love me.

We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie ;
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy;
We'll look on the stars and we'll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her.
Oh! she'll whisper you,-"Love as unchangeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming,
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river."

So come in the evening, or come in the morning;
Come when you're looked for, or come without warning;
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come the more I'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!"
THOMAS DAVIS.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES.

"And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day." Deut. XXXIV, 6.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave;
But no man dug that sepulchre,
And no man saw it e'er,

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral
That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the tramping,
Or saw the train go forth;
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Noiselessly as the springtime

Her crown of verdure weaves,
And all the trees on all the hills
Open their thousand leaves,-

So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,
Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.

Perchance the bald old eagle

On gray Beth-peor's height,
Out of his rocky eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight.
Perchance the lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot;

For beast and bird have seen and heard
That which man knoweth not.