Till at last, among a number of the wounded and the slain, Was the white face of the soldier, waiting for his daughter's kiss.

Softly to his lips she crept,

Not to wake him as he slept;

Then, with her young heart at rest,

Laid her head upon his breast;

And upon the dead face smiling, with the living one near by, All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams gently flowed;

One to live a lonely orphan, one beneath the sod to lie,— They found them in the morning on the dusty Concord road.

NIGHTFALL.-W. W. ELLSWORTH,

Alone I stand;

On either hand

In gathering gloom stretch sea and land;
Beneath my feet,

With ceaseless beat,

The waters murmur low and sweet.

Slow falls the night:

The tender light

Of stars grows brighter and more bright.
The lingering ray

Of dying day

Sinks deeper down and fades away.

Now fast and slow

The south winds blow,

And softly whisper, breathing low,

With gentle grace

They kiss my face,

Or fold me in their cool embrace.

Where one pale star,

O'er waters far,

Droops down to touch the harbor bar,

A faint light gleams,

A light that seems

To grow and grow till nature teems

With mellow haze;
And to my gaze

Comes rising, with its rays

No longer dim,

The moon; its rim

In splendor gilds the billowy brim.
I watch it gain

The heavenly plain;

Behind it trails a starry train,

While low and sweet

The wavelets beat

Their murmuring music at my feet.

Fair night of June!

Yon silver moon

Gleams pale and still. The tender tune
Faint floating, plays

In moonlit lays

A melody of other days.

Comes o'er my soul. I hear no sound,
Save at my feet

The ceaseless beat

Of waters murmuring low and sweet.

A MYSTERIOUS DUEL.

The following incoherent account of a duel was furnished to HARPER'S WEEK. LY, by a correspondent of that journal.

A duel was lately fought in Texas by Alexander Shott and John S. Nott. Nott was shot, and Shott was not. In this case it is better to be Shott than Nott. There was a rumor that Nott was not shot, and Shott avows that he shot Nott, which proves either that the shot Shott shot at Nott was not shot, or that Nott was shot notwithstanding. Circumstantial evidence is not always good. It may be made to appear on trial that the shot Shott shot shot Nott or, as accidents with fire-arms are frequent, it may be possible that the shot Shott shot shot Shott himself, when the whole affair would resolve itself into its original elements, and Shott would be shot, and Nott would be not. We think, however, that the shot Shott shot shot not Shott, but Nott; anyway, it is hard to tell who was shot.

40

1

THE SINGLE HEAD OF WHEAT.

MRS. L. C. ELDRED.

All my daily tasks were ended;
And the hush of night had come,
Bringing rest to weary spirits,
Calling many wanderers home.
"He that goeth forth with weeping,
Bearing golden grains of wheat,
Shall return again, rejoicing,

Laden with the harvest sweet."

This I read, and deeply pondered
What of seed my hand had sown,
What of harvest I was reaping

To be laid before the throne.

While my thoughts were swiftly glancing
O'er the paths my feet had trod,
Sleep sealed up my weary eyelids,
And a vision came from God.

In the world's great field of labor,
All the reapers' tasks were done;
And each hastened to the Master

With the sheaves that he had won.
Some, with sheaves but poor and scanty,
Sadly told the number o'er;
Others staggered 'neath the burden
Of the golden grain they bore.

Gladly then the pearly gateways
Opening wide gave entrance meet,
As they sought the Master's presence,
Laid their burdens at his feet.
Slowly, sadly, with the reapers
Who had labored long and late,
Came I at the Master's bidding,
And was latest at the gate.

Then, apart from all the others,
Weeping bitterly, I stood;
I had toiled from early morning,
Working for the others' good.
When one friend had fallen fainting
By his piles of golden grain,

With a glass of cooling water
I revived his strength again.
And another, worn and weary,
I had aided for awhile,
Till, her failing strength returning,
She went onward with a smile.
Thus the others I had aided,

While the golden moments fled,
Till the day was spent, and evening
On the earth her tear-drops shed.
And I to the Master's presence
Came, with weary, toil-worn feet,
Bearing as my gathered harvest
But a single head of wheat.

So with tearful eyes I watched them,
As, with faces glad and bright,
One by one they laid their burdens
Down before the throne of light.
Ah! how sweetly then the blessing
Sounded to my listening ear:
"Nobly done, my faithful servants,
Rest now in your mansions here."
Then I thought, with keenest sorrow,
Words like these are not for me;
Only those with heavy burdens
Heavenly rest and blessings see.

Yet I love the Master truly,

And I've labored hard since dawn; But I have no heavy burden, Will he bid me to begone? While I questioned thus in sadness, Christ the Master called for me, And I knelt before Him saying, "I have only this for Thee.

"I have labored hard, O Master!

I have toiled from morn till night; But I sought to aid my neighbors, And to make their labor light. So the day has passed unnoticed, And to-night, with shame, I come, Bringing, as my gathered harvest, But a single wheat-head home."

Then I laid it down with weeping,
At his blessed, pierced feet;
And he smiled upon my trembling,—
Ah! his smile was passing sweet.
"Child, it is enough," he answered,
"All I asked for thou hast brought,
And, among the band of reapers,
Truly, bravely, hast thou wrought.
"This was thine appointed mission:
Well hast thou performed thy task;
Have no fear that I will chide thee,
This is all that I would ask."
Then I woke; but long the vision
In my heart I pondered o'er,
While I tried to see what meaning
Hidden in its depths it bore.
And, at length, this lesson slowly
Dawned upon my wondering mind;
Never mind what others gather,
Do whate'er thy hand can find.
If it be thy lotted mission

Thus to serve the reaper-band,
And the evening find thee weary,
With an empty, sheafless hand,
Let thy heart be never troubled;
Since thou hast fulfilled thy task,
Have no fear that He will chide thee,
Heavy sheaves He will not ask.

A GENTLEMAN.

"Tis he whose every thought and deed
By rule of virtue moves;

Whose generous tongue disdains to speak
The thing his heart disproves.

Who never did a slander forge,

His neighbor's fame to wound;

Nor hearken to a false report,

By malice whispered round.
Who vice, in all its pomp and power,
Can treat with just neglect;
And piety, though clothed in rags,
Religiously respect.