wild despair to the temple of Soliman, even there the avenging Christians sought them out, and a thousand, ay! ten times a thousand impious revilers slaked the earth with their gore. And when the work was done, and that fearful insult was avenged; when the conquering army had time to think of the mighty deed they had achieved; when they remembered that within the walls where they now were the Savior had been buried, a gush of holy tenderness swept over their souls,—old and young, noble and peasant, men, women, and children,—and with tears in their eyes, they cast aside their weapons, took off their sandals, and, rushing to the Holy Sepulchre, kissed the consecrated pavement, and washed the altar with their tears. And when twilight darkened over the city, the vespers of holy men went up to heaven, for the first time after the lapse of centuries, instead of the accursed Mezzuin’s call. Night came down at length, and silence hung over the walls. The shrieks of the wounded; the groans of the dying; the crackling of burning habitations, and the impious revilings of the infidels had ceased: while not a sound broke the profound hush of midnight, except the faint gurgling of the brook of Kedron, and the low whispers of the night wind among the palaces of Jerusalem. And a thousand stars looked brilliantly down from the calm blue sky, as if the angels, whose thrones they are, were shouting hallelujahs that the last day of the Saracen had passed. * * * * * SONNET. BY PARK BENJAMIN. Loved of my soul! I seek in vain for thee. Why from my sight art thou, sweet star, away? Heaven is not fair without thy tender ray, And all things robed in shadow seem to be. The evening wind has lost its melody: Hushed are the chords on every bending bough; The waters have no voice of music now, And silence, dove-like, broods upon the sea. Is there no light, indeed—no joyous sound When Beauty dwelt with Song, and Nature cast Treasures of Summer happiness around? Oh, yes! unchanged the verdant prospect lies— The present is as lovely as the past— It only lacks the lustre of thine eyes. * * * * * THE NEGLECTED WIFE. BY ROBERT MORRIS. “Oh! there were hours When I could hang forever on his eye, And Time, who stole with silent swiftness by, Strew’d, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.”