A shot re-echoed through the wood, I saw the smoky wreath— The lamb was bleeding in her lap The glancing ball beneath— I sprang and raised the sufferer And staunched the ebbing tide, And carefully I bound the wound, And sat me by her side. I quieted her quick alarm, I gently soothed her fears, And o’er the dying favorite We mingled tears with tears: I shared her grief, and calmed her woe, And blamed the sportsman rude— She raised her swimming eyes to mine And smiled her gratitude. She faintly smiled and dropped her gaze, Her passive hand I took, No word was spoke, we only heard The murmur of the brook; Her gaze was on the murdered lamb, Her heart was strangely moved— She sighed, and oh! the loss she felt, The void where once she loved. Again I soothed her maiden grief, And sighed whene’er she sighed, And with such winning sympathy Her starting tears I dried,— And when she ceased I sighed myself, And she besought to know All artlessly and innocent The secret of my woe. I told her it was all herself, That I had paused to gaze, And that her witching loveliness Would sadden all my days; And then I sighed, and looked away, And told her how I grieved, Not for myself, but for the pang Her gentle heart received. I asked her but to pity me, And told my grief to part— Her fingers trembled, and I heard The beating of her heart, And all dissolved in sympathy She yielded to my side— Was ever virgin love as thine? My Rosalie, my bride! * * * * * THE GHOST OF CHEW’S WALL; A LEGEND OF GERMANTOWN. BY OLIVER OLDFELLOW. When a man becomes so far lost to a sense of self-importance, as not only to tell, but actually to _write stories_,—thus recording his turpitude in black and white—it is not to be presumed that slight consequences will deter him from his purpose. Indeed, it is rather to be supposed that he has made up his mind to despise public opinion, and to brave all indignation. His hand is sure to follow as his pen may lead, and whatever he may _resolve_, when the story is written, it is, somehow or other, sure to find its way into print. The best motives of a writer may therefore be mistaken, or his strongest resolves puffed to the winds by a single breath, so that it may well be supposed in what a predicament we were, when we found our best intentions frustrated, and had to encounter the wrath and tobacco smoke of our German neighbors, and were obliged to write this apologetic introduction, and all through a villanous blunder of our greedy devil.