“For five campaigns Did my sweet Lucy know Each hardship and each toil We soldiers undergo. Nor ever did she murmur, Or at her fate repine, She thought not of her sorrow, But how to lessen mine: In hunger, or hard marching, Whate’er the ill might be, In her I found a friend, Who ne’er deserted me: And in my tent when wounded, And when I sickening lay, Oft from my brow with trembling hand, She wiped the damps away. And when this heart, my Lucy, Shall cease to beat for thee, Oh! cold, clay cold, Full sure this heart must be.” THE ROBBER. “A friend of mine who had long struggled with a dangerous fever, approached that crisis on which his life depended, when sleep, uninterrupted sleep might ensure his recovery;--his wife, scarcely daring to breathe, sat by him; her servants, worn out by watching, had all left her; it was past midnight,--the room door was open for air; she heard in the silence of the night a window thrown open below stairs, and soon after footsteps approaching; in a short time, a man came into the room--his face was covered with a black crape: she instantly saw her husband’s danger; she pointed to him, and, pressing her finger upon her lip to implore silence, held out to the robber her purse and her keys: to her great surprise he took neither; he drew back, and left the room,--whether he was alarmed, or struck by this courage of affection cannot now be known; but, without robbing a house sanctified by such strength of love--he departed.” SENECA.