mountain-top at dawn. He spoke almost inaudibly, as if in a trance;
then repeating with a musical flow the words of his favorite author,

"Where the bright seraphim in burning row
Their loud uplifted angel-trumpets blow,
And the cherubic host in thousand choirs
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms
Hymns devout and holy psalms
Singing everlastingly,"--

his voice sank again, though it was easy to see that a prayer trembled
on his lips. As a strain of music fades into silence, his tones fell
away, fainter and fainter; and with the same seraphic light on his
countenance his breathing ceased.




THE BIRTH-MARK.

A.D. 12--.

See, here it is, upon my breast,--
The bloody image of a hand!
On her white bosom it was pressed,
Who should have nursed--you understand;--
I never yet have named her name,
Nor will I, till 'tis free from shame.