Of course the moon has an influence on the extra mass at the earth’s equator, as the sun has, similar in kind, but far less in quantity. This influence would cause the earth’s axis to describe very small cones of the same nature as the large cone above described; and the period of every rotation would be about nineteen years. The effect of this second or lunar influence is to cause the earth’s axis to dip a little towards the equator, and then to resume its position; and this nodding motion is termed _nutation_, from the Latin word _nuto_, to nod. Thus the axis of the earth describes a cone not of uniform surface, but as it were fluted, and completes its majestic round in nearly twenty-six thousand years, pointing to a various succession of stars which will in their turns be honored by future astronomers as the pole-stars of their respective generations.—_Chambers’s Journal._ LAUREL. A pictured face, in frame of gold, Large, tender eyes, and forehead bold, And firm, unflinching mouth; A face that tells of mingled birth— The calmness of the northern earth, The passion of the south! The one face in the world to me, The face I never more shall see Until God’s kingdom come! Oh, tender eyes! oh, firm strong lips! What comfort in my life’s eclipse? What succor? Ye are dumb! I brought the blossoms of the Spring To deck my true love’s offering While he was far away: With rose’s bloom, with pansy’s grace I wreathed the well-beloved face; I have no flowers to-day. But laurel, laurel for my brave My hero lying in his grave Upon that foreign sod! He passed amid the crash of guns, Beyond the farthest sun of suns, A kingly soul, to God! He died upon the battlefield, He knew not, he, to fly nor yield, Bold Britain’s worthy son! And I will wreathe his laurel crown, Although the bitter tears run down— I was his chosen one. He loved his country, so did I; He parted forth to do or die, And I—I let him go; Oh dear, dear land! we gave thee all, God bless the banner, and the pall, God help the mourner’s woe! I hear the bells ring loud and sweet, I hear the shouting in the street, For joy of victory; The very children cease their play, To babble of the victor’s bay, And pennons flutter free. I hear the vivas long and loud, As they ride onward through the crowd, His comrades bold and brave; The shouts of triumph rend the air, Oh, he must hear them lying there, My hero in his grave! I do not grudge thee, darling mine! I, the last daughter of a line Whose warrior blood ran free Upon the battlefields of old; Thou wast not mine to have and hold, The land hath need of thee.