The combat still raged; leaping over the dead and dying, with a bound she reached the breast-work. The French journals, in describing the assault upon, and the carrying of this barricade, illustrated the enthusiastic patriotism of the insurgents, with the story of a young and beautiful girl, who, in the hottest of the fight, leaped upon the ramparts, flag in hand, and waving it gallantly above her head, shouting—_liberté_—fell, pierced by a hundred bullets, outside the barricade. It was Ella Corbyn. * * * * * SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF THE NORTH. BY WILLIAM ALBERT SUTLIFFE. Midnight was brooding o’er the Arctic highlands Midnight, the dim, and faint, and strangely cold; When on an iceberg, ’mid the icy islands, Sat the chill Northern Spirit, weird, and cold. Her floating tresses hung, Wailing unto the blast; Her vapory vestment swung As the wind hurried past: And ever and anon she moaned, and sung, With tremulous voice, such as the tempest leaf In piny woods, and then again she flung Her slender fingers o’er a harp, and wept, And wailed unearthly music, as when grieves And sings a fallen angel, then it slept A moment in the rude arms of the blast— The snowy-footed madly rushing past— And then sprung up again, as when o’erleap Rich showers of harmony Heaven’s rampart steep, And, star-like, from on high Far-trailing down the sky, Strike mortals mad, or wild: So the pale Boreal Child Sang to the soul of Naught, that brooded o’er Lone semi-annual nights, and days as long, An icy ocean, with an icy shore, And icy islands, sparsely thrown among A yest of icy waves; and all was ice, By sempiternal Winter wrought To many a quaint device. And then again, when the cold North-wind kissed Her pallid lips, up to the amethyst Of the far heaven she raised her spirit eyes, Then beat, and wept, while ever grim Surprise Wondered that she should weep, and then she played A prelude to her harp, then sung, then paused, While symphonies filled up the gaps she made, And Echo woke applause. Wondrous the sadness of her floating strain! The icebergs thrilled unto their heart of hearts, And Ocean’s breast rose with convulsive starts; While from her eyes the tearful-beaded rain Froze into gems upon her vapory dress, Embroidered loveliness. O Loneliness, O Nothingness, O Death! O Dreariness around me, I must weep! Would that my very soul were tears to steep The wind with, that, at every breath, With weeping, I might spend my soul so fast My agony’s last throb would soon be past.