They fiercely labored through many days,
Nor paused to rest in the darksome night,
And slowly opened the cumbered ways,

Where many a bloody and ghastly sight
They met, in working and toiling by;

And mangled corpses were sent above, Where hillsides echoed the anguished cry Of some poor creature's despairing love. But on they went; for they found not all, Though hundreds lay in the grasp of deathAnd hourly listened to catch the call

Of some poor wretch with expiring breath,
Who might have lived in a rock-hewn grave,
To hear the rapid but deadened sound
That told him comrades had sought to save,
And wrest its prey from the flinty ground.
When, sudden, a sound the stillness broke,
As the sound of waters far away;
While each arrested his falling stroke.
No frozen statues as still as they
Who looked and listened in rapt surprise
To the shivering echoes, low and long,
While through the caverns fall and rise
The solemn chant of a sacred song.

A song that all, in their native tongue,
Had listened to on their mother's breast,
And heard in trembling accents sung

When friends were laid in the grave to rest;

A hymn so old, as to form a part

Of the oldest legends the Welshmen knew,

To cling to their inmost soul and heart,
As the old home anthems ever do:

"In the deep and angry billows
None can raise my sinking head
But my fond and faithful Saviour,

Who hath lived and died instead.
Friend of friends in death's dark river,
Firm support upon the wave,

Seeing him I sing contented

Though death's waters round me rave.”

Thus distant voices sang the song,

Afaint with fasting but not with fears;

For the brave old miners' hearts were strong;
While listening comrades heard with tears
The notes that the prisoned miners sang,
Who knew not yet that help drew nigh,
Till the dismal death-traps echoes rang
With the fearless faith that dared to die;

To the Christian's glad, triumphant strain,
That looked with trust to an awful death;
That proudly conquered despair and pain,
And sang sweet songs with the latest breath.
No higher heroes in ancient days,

Who proudly figure in glorious tales,
Had higher claims to the hero's praise

Than these rough men in the mines of Wales.
Then the seeking miners bent their powers
Till the sturdy strokes fell thick and fast,
And working bravely a few short hours,
They rescued the little band at last;
But some were discovered, alas, too late;
While those surviving the bitter fright
Bore such dread marks of their cruel fate
That strong men wept at the woeful sight.
For hunger's clutches had marked each face
With the sign of suffering branded deep,
And the lines that pain's sharp pencils trace
On the forms that such dread vigils keep.
"Tis a simple story, sad but true,

Of the humble heroes, rough and brave,
Who sang a grand old anthem through

In the gloomy depth of a living grave— One of the sadly simple tales

Of life and death in the mines of Wales.

THE WOODLAND LESSON.--ELIZABETH BOUTON.

Not a sound through the forest's deep silence was heard,
Save a rustle of leaves that a zephyr had stirred,
And this song warbled clear by the voice of a bird,
I love you! I love you!

And another bird perched on a hazel-bough nigh,
In each pause of the song caroled forth this reply,
Show it! Show it!

One silvery-voiced songster untiringly sang

I love you,

And still like an echo the forest aisles rang
Show it.

The summer day over, the sun sank to rest
Behind the green hill-tops that skirted the West,
And still from the tree that embowered their nest,
I love you! I love you!

Fell in clear, flute-like notes on the listening ear,
And in accents as soft, as melodious and clear,
Show it! Show it!

One sang of affection, frank, ardent, and bold,
I love you;

One ever asked proof of the story thus told,
Show it.

The last level beams lay like gold on the hill,
A many-voiced choir woke the echo so still,
Yet o'er the wild chorus rose high, loud, and shrill,
I love you! I love you!

And as musical, clear, as wild and as high,
Was borne on the air with the zephyr's low sigh,
Show it! Show it!

One loudly repeating that often told tale,
I love you;

One pleading to know that its truth would not fail,
Show it.

The shadows grew deep in each lone forest nook,
The forest's green robes in the night breezes shook,
And each woodland songster his anthem forsook.
I love you! I love you!

Came floating no more through the twilight so fair,
Nor responsive was borne on the soft summer air,
Show it! Show it!

But a twittering sound by slumber half hushed,
I love you,

Woke as drowsy a chirp from the thick hazel-bush,
Show it.

SHAKSPEARE.-GEORGE S. BRYAN.

The poet thus shut out from the busy world-denied a part, or having no proper part, in the great drama of life, like Shakspeare-with sympathies wide as creation, and sensibility deep as old ocean, and susceptible to all objects of universal nature as its watery mirror-becomes its painter and dramatist, and reveals the heart of man, for all time, to his fellows.

In opening his works-the Bible of nature-the eye meets his gentle countenance. Open it is and placid as some summer's sea, but it bears no painful trace of passion, no deep line of thought; it smiles upon us as if its quiet surface had never been swept by a storm of feeling, and its tranquil depths never agitated by the tumults of emotion. Its

smooth mask makes no revelation. And when, passing from his portrait, we turn over his pages, we seem not to be conversing with an individual mind, or to come in contact with an individual character. The works of the god are before us, but they are so varied, and all so perfect, that they give no sign of their parent. The creator of this rich and boundless world is lost in his works; we cannot detect him, we cannot trace him.

We hear the passionate voice of Juliet; the gentle tones of Desdemona; the despairing wail of Ophelia ; the freezing whispers of Lady Macbeth; the merry notes of Beatrice; the beguiling music of Antony; the savage cries of Shylock; the kindling utterances of Marcus Brutus; the jolly laugh of Falstaff; the devilish sneer of Iago; all voices of man or woman, witch or fairy, salute us. But which is the voice of Shakspeare? Like the principle of life, which is everywhere, but nowhere to be seen; which crowds the world with its ten thousand shapes of deformity and beauty, of terror, gladness, and glory; yet, is itself shrouded in impenetrable darkness, the mystery of mysteries,-such is Shakspeare amidst his works, he is everywhere and nowhere.

Mimic and painter of universal nature, he paints all characters with equal truth, and seemingly with equal relish. The wild and romantic love of Juliet; the saintly tenderness and meek devotion of Desdemona; the ambitious, worldly, licentious, yet weak and womanly passion of the Egyptian sorceress, find equal sympathy. Each has a perfect spell for him, and he is the proper soul of each. He bodies forth the sacred love of Desdemona, as if he were himself a saint, and had found in her a helpmate to his virtue; he decorates the girlish Juliet, he lavishes all virgin sweets and glories upon her, as if he were an ardent, dreaming boy, and she the very mistress of his soul and idol of his worship; and Cleopatra, the serpent of old Nile!-how does he dote upon her-how does he paint her to the very taste of flesh and blood-how does his imagination run riot, and teem like another Nile, with all the images of dissolving luxury and seductive beauty; and when he contemplates her, how like another Antony does he hang upon her, and drink in intoxication from her unchaste eyes! Who of

these was, in truth, the mistress of Shakspeare's soul? Who shall tell us? For all his works disclose, Cleopatra may have had as much of his love and approbation as Juliet or Desdemona; and he was perfectly indifferent which of the three you might give your heart to, or whether you were saint or sinner-Romeo or Antony. He was content to paint, and happy alike, if Leonatus or Iachimo, Othello or Iago, were the sitters.

Which of these you might make the man of your counsel and the model of your life, was no concern of his. His sympathies were so universal that he seemed to have lost entirely his own individuality in the character of others and, like the mocking-bird, to have had no song which could be recognized as his own. His distinctive self and the process of his thought alike lie hidden in a darkness as profound as the great womb of nature itself; and amidst the multitudinous and wondrous masquerade which he has, with wizard power, conjured up for your amusement, his form--the master of this princely revel-is not detected, and his face alone among the maskers remains forever masked.

YOUTHFUL EXPERIENCES.

Aunt Prue was a little particular,
And I was a little gay,

So, when she caught me doing things
She thought were out of the way,

She'd drive me into a corner

With her questions cute and clear,
And sometimes, dodge or no dodge,
I couldn't keep quite clear.

At last I grew a big fellow-
A score of years or so.

I fell in love with a beauty;
Her name was Nettie Snow.

'Twas then Aunt Prue made manifest

Her righteous Baptist ire;

Fer Nettie sang first treble

In the Unitarian choir.